Scattered Shards
by Shigan
Summary: AU. KxM. Called by their common nature, hitwoman Mireille Bouquet meets the amnesic girl vampire Kirika. A meeting that brings them to unlock what ties them together, and to discover that sometimes, the forbidden was maybe meant to be. CHA 5! BANZAAAIII!
1. Prologue: Nightwalker

You know, just when I thought "Hey, I'm done! I finished my Noir three-part story!". Just when I thought now it's over, my Noir obsession had had its final toll, and that I could actually sit down and _write_ my homework assignments instead of fanfiction. God almighty just had to plop out from the blue, planting a new story seed through my ears, into my brain and down my spine. So here I am, some months after finishing Sing for Me, I've found myself sitting down in front of my computer again, leisurely typing away all my troubles and not to mention my poor, neglected credits. Final exams are going to be a dark, dark period this summer. ^_^

For you Noir starved people, I have this multipart AU story to give. This time, I've chosen to feature the forming of the Noir relationship between Mireille and Kirika, but with our cute, cat-loving and cuddly genius as a vampire. I was always fascinated by how the relationship of those two developed all through the show and how it concluded, so I thought, "hey, let's give it a try on my own!" But re-writing the whole show would certainly be boring eh? So I decided to re-do it, and make it a vampire story instead, for reasons I have forgotten -_-;.

As usual, I have words of warnings.

This is AU, as in Alternative Universe, as in not in the anime world, as in that things will be a lot different. Take OOC into account but in final, I'm intending to stand true to the characters. 

Those of you who are very *very* picky with your vampires, I am not, and do not intend to follow either Stoker's or Rice's vampire models. I run my own race in this story, please don't go "HEY, vampires CAN'T do that!!!". Vampires are fictional creatures, like ghosts, like poltergeists, and like Harry Potter. It's not like there is a standard and even if there were, I don't intend to follow them.

There will be no rainbows, flowers or pink bunnies here. This is Noir, the eternal darkness of human nature, vampire-styled.

With all that vented out, I hope you enjoy the show, wherever this is going. 

Let the bleeding begin.

-Shigan Lee 

***************

_Noir.___

_A name bestowed by ancient fate,_

_Sacrifice given in death by wish,_

_The blood of lambs forever protected,_

_By tears staining the blackened path._

**Prologue**** - Nightwalker**

Another Parisian night. 

A few cars passed in the almost empty street before once again disappearing into the dark, their spotlight beams temporarily revealing a lone figure beside the road. The figure, appearing female and in her mid teens, seemed to pay her surroundings no notice as she trampled on down the old, cracked pavement. She passed a few couples and drunks that were still out, trying to find their way home in the light fog that rested over the city of Paris. A dog wailed up some side alley, followed by the shouts of an arguing couple. The sound of shattering glass could be heard from behind a rusted steel door, but the dark-haired girl passing their window paid it no heed. She walked on, one second illuminated by the weak light given by a nearly broken streetlamp, swallowed by the night like a shadow that never existed. 

She appeared to be in no hurry despite that this particular part of the city was certainly no place for a lady her age, especially at an ungodly hour like this one. Neither did she seem to be afraid or even slightly affected by the ruggedness of her surroundings; she merely walked on, appearing to ignore the jibes and whistles from a group of rowdy youngsters hanging at the entrance of a seedy pub. Truly, you could easily see that she was not from this part of the town. Her clothes were tidy, clean and looked expensive, not extravagantly so but spoke of far better wealth than those you would usually find here. A dark coloured parka covered her thin, almost petite frame, matched to a pair of black pants together with sturdy, yet graceful low-heeled boots; the whole attire serving her well in the means of camouflage along her journey through the night. 

Her stride was steady, not stuck up but showed clear and inborn confidence. She kept her eyes projected downwards at the uneven road before but her shoulders were straight, stretched to their full width while carrying her indeed small, but still imposing figure to her body's fully erected length. She passed a young hooker dressed in barely anything; while fumbling with her makeup, the woman eyed the girl who was clearly out of this street's usual pack distastefully like a villager would an outcast. Nothing was said as both women crossed, each continuing down their own paths in life, fate bringing them together for one fleeting moment on this chilly night. The hooker, who called herself Katie tonight, suddenly shuddered, an unpleasant tingle running down her spine. She turned after the outsider, more by a hunch than really expecting something. To her surprise, the darkened street was already empty, even the clattering sound of fast paced steps already fading into the dark.

Katie shook her head in amusement. She must be going crazy to whip after some classy stash like that one. Even if she had to admit that the kid looked cute, she had caught a glimpse of fine Asian features, crowned by a mop of unruly, yet well groomed dark hair. Too bad the girl had kept her eyes down, hindering her from seeing the whole face. Innocence in any form came rare in these parts of town, rare enough for it to be an attraction anyway. Just too bad that she hadn't been here for business, the night was coming short and business hadn't been too good. Hell, she was tempted to drag someone for free just to get some warmth. Damn that Roberto and his fucked up business schemes, no bad about flashy vinyl but at three a.m.? She really needed a hook and fast, just some cash and a warm body.

She laughed. Yeah, sure thing, the kid had probably been some precious little princess from a sheltered family who fought with daddy and ran away from home. Aw yes, those cute little angry steps of hers, pat, pat, pat against the stone. Now that had been a good merit, banging papa's little lady could indeed add some interesting refreshment in this job. Sure, drunks, slobs and overhormonal teens paid fresh bills but five years in the business and you get tired of them. No steam at all.

"Oi lady, you free?"

Did she look occupied? Stupid kid, it was the same shit every night. Well, she wasn't really in a position to complain. She had clothes, she was fed and she even still looked pretty. That's hooker life for you; in all aspects she should really be happy. Turning around to face the leering, drunk looking boy behind her, she sighed. He couldn't be more than fifteen years old, the perverted little bastard. Putting up a bored smile was easy enough and this one didn't look all too poor. 

Maybe this night wasn't all wasted.

A few blocks down the street from the back-alley where Katie usually took her customers, things were getting a little out of hand between two groups of streeters. Two young men, looking to be in their midtwenties, were going at each order in the middle of the street, hard. Both had knives in hand, glaring at each other to tease their deaths while throwing a few well chosen insults. Their respective mobs, under some conditions even called friends, were rounded up around them like vultures near a dying body. Yells of scorn and egging on rained down on the pair. Laughter passed between them, anticipation of violence hung in the air, so clear that you could almost smell it. Eyes that were emptied of hope, shimmering in stirred bloodlust, trapped the both men, hindering them from pulling out even if they had wanted to.

None of them noticed the girl who passed them by. Not even glancing at them as if she had seen this hundreds, if not thousands of times while continuing in her nightly stride. Like a shadow she passed, never even lifting her eyes to give the people around her a slightest glance, merely coming and fading into the shadows among the world of men. Ignoring the joys and sorrows around her alike, she seemed to be obvious to the muck of human behaviour around her. 

The shouts of a pained scream from the loser went by her like a whisper in the wind. The victor raised his blade, letting the crimson liquid of his fallen opponent drip down his arm, a look of disbelief plastered in his maddened, unshaven face. It was a face of mad joy, joy to be the one who lived yet still unable to believe it.

The girl walked on.

… Even if for one brief moment, her demeanour changed. It had only lasted for a second but still so evident there if one simply looked. She drew a sharp intake of air, caused by the tremor that rocked through her body, stiffening her muscles and causing her to softly bite into her lower lips, sinking her white teeth into the soft flesh. Her pace picked up, away from the crowd of roughs which now celebrated, or mourned, a fellow comrade, following blindly the instincts that were given by the ancient laws of humanity.

Her quickened walking continued for another few minutes until she finally stopped in the corner of a square. You couldn't really call it a square, just a little opening between the rows of run down buildings around it. Trash littered the ground from a few overturned trashcans, giving the place a rather sweet smell of decay and rotting food. A stray cat shot its head up, eyeing the new company with a rather disinterested look before continuing its meal. 

She released the breath she had been holding in a long, exaggerated sigh, lifting her head towards the clearing sky above the city. Her face softening into a relaxed expression as the moon came forth, as if upon her calling, bathing the girl in its pale dreamlike gaze. The motion made her hair fall back, revealing a pair of soulful maroon orbs stained in primal red.

It was a good night. Not too cold yet chilly enough to sting her pale, delicate looking skin. If just this annoying fog could clear away it would have literally been perfect. The moon was singing in the sky, inviting and tempting her with its cold light. Yet, she restrained herself, calming the excited jolt in her midsection with another deep intake as she closed her eyes. 

She could still smell it, a few hundred metres away, the blood that was spilling on the pavement. The nasty, stinging smell of an unwashed human body was mixed into the delicious odour together with the owner's cheap deodorant. A suffocating stink of male that made her want to retch. 

Another scream echoed through the night. Someone had apparently started a new brawl before the first body had even bled out. She could still hear it, the heart of the dying, or presumably already dead man on the ground. It was pondering, the muscle working itself into a frenzy to deliver the much needed blood to the rest of the body, causing even more of the precious liquid to spill from the wound, therefore killing its host even faster in the process. The men around the body moved, swishing sounds of clumsy movement, bone and flesh clashing into each other to bring pain and the excited, almost aroused panting from the onlookers, she could hear them all. It neither disgusted nor amused her, however; she had seen this before. The traits of humanity, hidden in the creation which they called civilization where they were expected to behave. 

Humans were creatures of so short a lifespan, therefore they strived to seek their passions to such extremes; driven by their inborn knowledge that life was not forever. Her mother had told her so when she was still a newborn, still too baffled by her second birth to digest the elder woman's words to their full meaning. How long ago had that been? She could not remember, ages and eras could pass as one slept, and yet it was all still so familiar.

And her sleep had been long.

The world around her had changed when she awoke, called back from the darkness for reasons unknown. That happened, according to the calendar of men, a little more than ten years ago. Ten years spent on travelling and relearning a world which had changed beyond recognition. The sleep had its lasting effects on her. The unnatural rest had, by unknown ways, crippled much of her memories to a degree that most images and words that could be recalled were incoherent. But still to her great relief, some things did last through sleep that went beyond death, and such a thing was her name.

Yuumura Kirika.

She was named by her originated country, the eastern land today known as Japan. But whatever memory the place should have left her, she had clearly slept it away. None of it bothered her however since those who had known about her existence should all by now be dead, by passing of age or slain by her own hands. It happened a time so long ago that all she could recall was a whirlpool of mixed impressions; joy like sorrow, pain like pleasure, all mixed into one blur together with the sounds of fading voices, screams and pleads alike.

No, she would not dwell on it. Her forehead tightening at her path of mind, subconsciously reminding her of the discomfort the subject brought her. She could not remember why or what had happened. The only certain thing was that they were all gone. It was a quiet life she had awoken to, resting in an old stone manor surrounded by grapevines which time seemingly had forgotten.

She had been all alone. The whole building had stunk of ancient death so badly that she decided to leave as soon as her legs were able to carry her, wanting to put the biggest possible distance between herself and the wretched place. The path between the mountains had taken her to a demoted village by the frontier, a quiet and laid back town consisting of nothing more than farmers that lived by what the earth could bear them. 

Driven by the mad thirst of being awake and unable to summon any sense of self-control in her shaken mind, she had fed. She had savoured their mortal blood as her own until her senses cleared again, finally revealing to her logical mind the gruesome deed she had done. Her heart had bore little regret however. Remorse had come hesitantly at the sight of their terrified, lifeless faces. But one could not deny the needs of one's body; she could only sincerely hope that their souls had reached, and wandered in paradise.

Strange. Was there still so much of a human left in her? No, not if one would judge the bloodbath committed at her hands. Fulfilled but a bit shaken, she had left the land, steering her path wherever her mind desired. But still, she had found her deed to be repelling, even gruesomely so when she recalled the faces of the children.

Some may have thought it funny for someone of her kind to be repelled at death, but Kirika did not favour the power of taking life. She did not enjoy the view of corpses nor did she like making them. The blood was after all most tasteful while flowing in a live body, its sweetness at best while still being warm. It was unfortunate that the host died in the process but there was simply no other way. She did not enjoy dealing in death but neither would she ever hesitate when the task was to be done. 

Each kind had their instincts, and she was merely obeying hers. 

Giving the shimmering moon above a last glance, she steered her feet elsewhere, turning onto another street to continue her nightly stroll. The blood smell was still sharp in her lungs as she tried to shut it out, calming the primal urge that grew stronger in her for every passing second. A coaxing feeling of need fluttered in the pit of her stomach as the familiar burning prickled down her throat, awakening the sleeping thirst that always seemed so close.

She was tempted. The temptation was always there, the craving for blood always threatened to take over, turning her into the monster with no remorse, one who killed and fed for the pleasure instead of need. Such was a common thing when one was still young, newborns still unaware of the unwritten laws and yet unable to control the thirst that followed. Kirika, however, was long since past the age of a sapling; she was sure that her wandering upon this world had been long, and a far one. Her human life had apparently been relatively short, however. Her features were still those of a youngster, a woman child of barely mature age. Her body had been on the brink of human adulthood upon her birth, giving her the body and curves that reminded her more of a girl than a woman. The length of her second life, however, lay faded in her memories, stolen from her by the depth of her sleep like the cause of the slumber.

Kirika was by all means, a fully grown member of her kind. Both her senses and powers had long since matured from the benefit of practice and age. She was a master of her kind, one who few of the chosen surpassed when it came to knowledge and experience. A few unlucky selected had gotten a first hand experience of her skills during those years she journeyed; they were those of her kind who still believed in true immortality, and unfortunately, none had lived to tell. 

Time flew by while she had drifted from one land to another. Her clothes and attire were soon replaced by more modern ones. She crossed the continent, travelling with no real destination in mind until she reached the Far East, finally setting foot on the land that was supposed to be her birthplace. But nothing there had felt familiar to her. Neither the people nor the culture brought her any peace of mind. The cities had been like so many others, cramped, dusty and loud despite being the culmination of human civilization. Somewhat disappointed and frustrated, she had continued, crossing the sea towards the new continent. 

The world had still been a pretty place despite all the pollution caused by human hands. Life itself was still a beauty beyond glory like she remembered. The knowledge had brought her some joy during her journey through the lands. Humanity was as soiled as ever together with those of her own kind. Greed, hate and darkness bred everywhere you wandered, like it always did. Such was the truth of this world, and it was not like she had the right to judge the corrupted. 

Death had been her birth like blood was her call. She was a creature of sin with no hope for retribution. 

No, it was not her place to judge the world. She was a dark stain in God's creation. That was and always would be her place among the living until her parting to the underworld.

She accepted that lot in life, and it wasn't like she had any other choices. But despite that, she couldn't help but sometimes feel an annoying emptiness around her existence. Over ten years had now passed since her awakening, but for what purpose? Was she now doomed to wander this earth until the dreaded sleep claimed her once again?

Shaking her head slightly, she walked on. The street she now tramped on literally took her back the same way by a few hundred metres. This had been her repeated nightly ritual since her return to Paris a few months ago, when her senses inexplicably once again called her back to France. Neither could she really place the foreboding feeling she got whenever day faded into night in this city; it had become stronger over the weeks but now it was barely tolerable. A nagging feeling of lacking that was driving her to constant distraction. Walking in the streets somehow helped; therefore, most of her recent nights had consisted of exploring the darker parts of the city, wandering among the street trash like a kind of dark therapy.

"You fucking bitch, just do it!" The thick, grumpy voice of a man came from a side alley to the street. There was a woman's wail among several other male voices.

"Forget it, Sean, let's just do her. Gary, hold the whore down." 

The woman was crying, letting out small whimpers in dread that seemed to encourage the men even more by the sound of their laughter. The sound of hard leather against a body could be heard as she screamed in pain.

"Fuck, don't mess her up ya hear? I'm not into banging blue beaten hags." Someone snarled. There was more laughter.

Kirika walked past the alley, not giving a glance to the misdeed that was about to be done. It was, after all, none of her business. Those were human behaviours, as disgusting as they came, and she disliked meddling in human affairs. Another scream came from the alley; the woman was apparently fighting against the rape, but futilely so, as her struggle was only met with mocking snickers.

"Let's give her a little cut and see if she'll cooperate, shall we?" It was the same man again, his voice filled with malice and snide.

The words registered in Kirika's mind, cutting into her reason like a razor in warning, but too late - the thug had already acted. 

A wail of pain and horror echoed between the walls when an edge cut into flesh, severing skin, veins and bodily tissue in a snappish wet sound. The woman screamed, and screamed like never before as pain shot through her body. Her otherwise pretty face twisted into a mask of horror at the touch of cold metal plunged into her arm. Red, hot liquid ran down her limbs, soaking her clothes and releasing a coppery smell into the air. The whore, which she indeed was, whimpered and kicked out, sending herself tumbling to the pavement while clutching her arm in cramped movements. 

Katie was more or less scared shitless. Her aggressors were closing in. The man she had kicked was swearing and glaring at her with angry, mean eyes while pulling out another knife. The dread had since long stripped her of all rational thinking, she could only watch them get closer in shocked silence. So she did what any person would do in her situation. Pulling her knees against her chest with her other arm, she whimpered, like prey begging for mercy under the predator's claws.

"You're so fucking dead, you ugly bitch…" He snarled. The man was the oldest of them, probably in his early twenties with a spiky short hair and a face that reminded her of a rat. She didn't look up, merely continuing to clutch her bleeding arm while waiting for the blow in horrified stupor.

How could the hook have gone so horribly wrong? She closed her eyes.

Suddenly, there was a crack. The sound was reminiscent of when you snapped a fresh, thick stick in half, and echoed between the damp brick walls. A sick, gurgling moan from a crushed windpipe followed, accompanied by a clattering when a knife hit the grey pavement. The men turned around, only to be met with the horrid sight of their previous comrade. His face was twisted into a grimace of absolute terror while staring at them behind lifeless, frozen eyes. His neck was hanging haplessly, connecting his head and body in a sloppy way like a stretched rubber band. Despite that, however, his corpse still stood erect like a grotesque statue coming to life, held up by an unseen force from behind. Clouds of steam that briskly dissipated into the cold night air escaped his still widely gaping mouth, witnessing his last breaths in life while the bulging eyes stirred painfully one last time before going blank.

One of the men screamed in terror and threw up at his feet at the nightmarish picture, but was still unable to take his eyes off the unearthly sight. The leader with the ratface swore a long curse and reeled back, almost slamming against the wall where the woman still lay bleeding, her eyes also fixed on the horror before the trio.

The body fell to the ground in a jointless heap, hitting the pavement with a soft, fleshy thud to reveal the silhouette of a young woman standing behind. The shadows seemed to dance around her, covering her features from their mortal vision while she stepped over the body carefully. The corpse of their fellow comrade didn't distract the remaining two men for long, however, when they sensed the foreboding feeling of incoming danger.

They stood frozen in their positions, unable to move or flee from the impossible crushing presence of death that radiated from the girl before them. She seemed relaxed but her stride showed, even if just a little, restrained excitement. Her movement was fluid, and possessed an almost catlike grace while she glided towards the pair of terrified men in utter calmness, showing no wish whatsoever to haste her obvious deadly intentions. The leader suddenly jolted, tearing his limbs from the trance with a desperate cry as he flung out his arm, sending the knife toward her in a clumsy throw. The girl didn't even bother to flinch, however, as she simply brought up her hand and snatched the flying projectile out of the air while continuing her advance towards the two men.

Her face was serene and calm, almost childlike if it hadn't been for the deadly, almost sad blankness of her eyes.

She blurred before their eyes when her body suddenly exploded into action, impossible for the human eye to follow. Her movements were like a feline beast's that had been unleashed upon its prey in hungry fervour. The men never had a chance to scream as she was upon them like lightning, giving them no opportunity to react nor defend themselves. The younger one of them gave up a shriek and tried to run, but was thrown back immediately. The knife of his friend was now prodding out from his left eye socket, rammed in with an edge cutting precision, achieving an instant kill. The girl leaped over his tumbling, sprawling body in the same motion, landing in front of the remaining terrified man. 

The last thing the leader saw in his mortified horror was a pair of red stained eyes, burning with a haunting look of hunger, unfamiliar to the human world. He swore, and mumbled a prayer, knowing that God would not heed his call. There was little remorse but an eager glow of excitement in her young, flawless face when the blow came, so powerful that it threw his head and body against the wall, crushing him against the grey cement like a child would crack a nut.  

The lifeless, broken body fell to the cold, wet ground with a sickening fleshy thud. Kirika gave it no second look as her eyes turned to the woman on the ground. She was staring at her with big, exaggerated eyes that shone of both horrified disbelief and mixed gratitude. She was cramped up against the wall, blood still spilling from her wound, but she seemed not to care less about it as her eyes remained transfixed on the Asiatic girl before her. 

Katie swallowed hard and took a deep intake at the sight. It was the same girl who had passed her on the street before, the one who sent her musing just before the little pervert bought her. The same little pervert who now lay dead on the ground with his rapists for friends. The girl merely stood there, breathing evenly but literally brimming with rugged excitement as those bloodstained eyes graced her broken body. They were maroon, yet crimson glowing orbs in the dark; dangerous, unearthly and yet ravishingly attractive, like the eyes of a forbidden lover. No emotions or even the slightest hint of sympathy could be detected in them; they were like merciless jewels of the night, crowning the delicate features of a wayward angel. 

She was beautiful. 

Katie drew a deep, subconscious breath in visual pleasure at the sight before her. Logic and sense were long since gone from her already jumbled mind as she merely sat there bleeding, staring up at an ethereal face. 

A hand came up, cupping her chin and she shivered in eagerness and pleasure, all sense of dread forgotten like the smarting wound on her arm. The girl leaned closer to her, tracing a pale finger against her red flushed chin. Her breath came now in deep, leisurely gasps as she shuddered at the softness of the touch, unconsciously giving in to the slow seduction of this child succubus.

Eyes even more deeply crimson than the colour of her spilled blood pinned her down, locking her by unseen, yet physically effective chains. She could only gasp as her mortal senses were overfilled by the power of an overpowering presence, basking her senses in a brief glimpse of something eternal. 

The darkhaired girl before her parted her lips, but no speech came.

_You have seen, I cannot let you live._

The thought pressed into her mind, briefly registering while she tried to grasp its meaning.

_Bear me no hatred._

Kirika forcedly curled her pale lips in a small, sad smile, eyes softening temporarily at the frozen woman below her.

_Walk rested, mortal woman. I take your blood as mine._

Katie found herself suddenly pulled upwards by petite yet strong hands. The girl had sneaked her arms around her waist and back, forcing their bodies together while she dived downwards and buried her head in Katie's neck. Katie opened her mouth in a silent cry at the waves of pleasure that ripped through her at the physical contact. Her vision went blank as she felt how the girl's lips brushed against the sensitive skin below her ear. A small, wet tongue touched against her perfumed skin, coaxing her to lean her head back, granting the girl better access to her willingly given flesh. Katie let out a soft moan at the heavenly ministrations. Hands roamed her back, holding her efficiently in position while massaging her muscles into a state of utter relaxation. She threw her head back, her green eyes rolling back in their sockets when the girl brushed her lips seductively against her collarbone, being eager to give this dark, childlike goddess all that she had to offer.

Kirika let out a needy whimper between her ragged breathing when the last of her restraints crumbled to her nature. The accelerated rage from the killing and the smell of blood was now overwhelming her senses completely; a small wail escaped her lips as she found the perfect spot she had been searching for under the red haired woman's left cheek.

Unable to wait any longer, she sank her fangs through the soft layer of flesh and skin, finally indulging herself in the taste of mortal lifeblood in blissful ecstasy. The feeling was one of release as the hot liquid flowed into her mouth, down her throat and settled into the flow of her own body. The warmth was heavenly. Letting out a small sound of delight at her victim's eagerness, Kirika gasped. Shots of electricity trembled through her body, urging her to hurry her task before the blood cooled. She tangled her hand into the woman's now dishevelled hair, sucking urgently against the pale skin to drain the greatest possible amount of the precious red liquid from the now sagging body.

Katie's blood was boiling in her veins, responding to the smarting movement against her neck that made her mind go white in pleasure. She raised her arms and reached around the girl's head, trying to press the girl even deeper into her task as her body craved more of the heavenly bliss. Her arms didn't obey however, neither was her mind longer coherent enough to register the reduction of mobility. Everything seemed to be moving sluggishly now as weak moans escaped her now and then and the feeling of draining took over. Even the action of breathing became heavier while her vision began to dim, sinking her senses deeper and deeper into a familiar darkness reminiscent of sleep.

She parted her now pale, bloodless lips one last time as the light faded from her eyes. Falling back lifelessly into the chocolate haired girl's arms, she came to rest, succumbing to her final sleep with a fulfilled smile on her peaceful, now bloodless face.

Kirika released the bite with a small growl, the sweet liquid still dripping from her lips as she carefully licked up the last droplets that spilled from the wound. She cleaned it thoroughly before releasing the woman. The blood had been good, not virginal but still young, not yet entirely fouled by the stink of sin and despair. She stood up, laying the woman's arms across her chest in a resting position before licking her lips clean. 

Calming her breathing to a normal state, she savoured the warm feeling of satisfaction that made her limbs tremble. Her head felt numb in the dim of the aftershock, her senses still tingling from the previous pleasures. Power surged in her veins as she felt how the raw strength of living blood flowed, whirled and merged in her body, adding to her own strength by tenfold. She felt alive.

Leaving the bloodied alley behind without casting the bodies another glance, Kirika decided to continue her lengthened walk. The woman was, after all, only one among many. She had since long lost count of their numbers, the many humans that became relievers of her thirst, and she did not have any plans to start. It was simply a necessity of her kind.

Would a human question his ethics in eating a cow?

Of course not, so neither would she question about her own feeding. She had to admit that the act was enjoyable, addictively so, but Kirika learned long since to control the urge, or at least restrain it enough so she could dwell in the world of men without hassle. She gave in now and then, or her powers would slowly fade as the urge to feed became stronger. Like today, when the smell of blood became too strong to bear, sending her to react instinctually. It happened very seldom as she tried to keep the numbers down to a minimum, yet not even the strongest of her kind could entirely deny one's birth-given instincts. 

Her blood stirred at the thought. Yes, her body was still craving more even as she walked. It had been months since she last indulged herself in the pleasurable act and her body was clearly reminding her of its needs. She licked her lips, the taste of the woman still lingering on them, teasing her with the coppery flavour.  

Yes, why shouldn't she? It was a pleasant night and still young.

Her lips twitched. One who looked would have seen a rather pleasant if not serene expression on her face. Basking her face in the pale moonrays, she felt completely at ease. The orbital lady above was calling, summoning her with its haunting hymn. She could feel herself give in as her mind and senses joined in the lunarsong, which forever baffled her by its semi-eternal beauty. 

Drawing a deep breath of the cold air, she leaped towards the sky. The lights of the human world below her grew fainter, like a dirtied surface mirroring the star covered arc above. She left the rooftops behind. None of the muck could touch her here where she was alone in the emptiness, the moon and the briskness of the ice cutting wind being her sole companions. Her lips parted in silence as she mouthed the ancient words that echoed through space, her ears filling with the luminous hymn of the lunar orb, empowered by the screeching of the howling wind. Like in passing ages it had called her ancestors, it was now calling her. It was calling to its children to play, spurring the kindred of the night to the blood hunt. 

Despite her usual aloofness, Kirika had to let out a shiver in anticipation, wrapping her thin arms around her frame as she contained herself completely in the flow of the song, to the degree where she found herself humming to it. She could feel how her mind dimmed as her senses sharpened to such an intense degree that her intellect became blurred. With a final twist of heart she gave in, seeing the futility of her rather childish stubbornness. 

And like a shadow returning to the night, she was gone.

*{-------}*

_Children born in the darkest of nights.___

_Eternity granted by an ancient fate._

_Amidst the streets of __Paris__, our tale of nightwalkers begins._

****************

Living is learning. And I dare to say that in the recent few months, I have improved my writing some. I can not however, fully take credits for this as I have also learned another important lesson in life during the same time.

To write is to owe. 

I owe this story to a few people, I still cannot say when it will be finished but your encouragements, critics and comments have been helpers as much as kickers. And it is much due to you, that I will keep writing on this and certainly do my best. 

**LeeT911- **Comments engraved in gold. $_$

**Sprite Speigel **– Gaiman is God, yes? ´^_^`

**BrokenSword** – Simple yet absolutely *brilliant* sentence structures. *_*

**Kuroshiro**** – **"Late" does not exist in this one's vocabulary. -_^

*Thank* you, for your hard work, kind words, well-deserved critics and hilarious remarks. I'm curious myself of where this will go, and you guys have been great helpers as the kick off. My gratitude knows no boundaries. 

And of course, all of you read-thirsty bunch on ffonline, who knows just how much a few words can give. You know I love you all. ;)

TBC


	2. In Death We Meet

Here comes the second chapter! Finally all through checked and hopefully grammarwise correct...; Oh well, since I took a really really long rambling in the prologue, I'll keep things short here.

Enjoy!

-Shigan

* * *

_Noir_

_A name bestowed by ancient fate,_

_Sacrifice given in death by wish,_

_The blood of lambs forever protected,_

_By tears staining the blackened path._

* * *

**Epitaph 1 **– **In Death We Meet**

Some nights were just not meant to be for working. The thought struck professional hit woman Mireille Bouquet as she dodged behind a couple of steel bars that would provide some temporary cover for her. A rain of bullets followed her, raking into the metal, showering her in sparks from the friction. Semi automatic Uzis just like she thought. Shit. Things hadn't been going too good on this job; the target was still on the run, she had a pack of heavily armed security after her and she was down to two clips.

Oh well.

Throwing herself out from the cover, she opened fire, aiming her Walther P99 instinctually at where her senses told her the enemy was located. Three continuous shots echoed between the walls of the emptied subway station before she dived again behind a couple of strategic positioned chairs. A pained shriek told her that her aim had been true. But still, there was at least another five of them, not very favoured odds to fight against under any conditions.

She would have to ask for a raise on this job; the client seemed to have forgotten to specify that the target, Frank Renoir, would have a bunch of leashed bulldogs one floor below his office. Getting them done was going to take thrice the effort she had originally planned on this hit, and bodies didn't come cheap. Another stream of bullets tore into her cover, chips of wood and splinters rained down on her head. The wooden benches wouldn't last another round, she had to move and be quick about it. Making a close estimation from where the gunshots came from, she reached under the chairs and fired, buying her another few seconds to run for new cover.

This was not going well at all, not to mention that she had not even gotten close to the target because of this annoying bunch. A stray bullet sizzled past her ear, hitting the light behind her, suddenly sending the whole station into sunken darkness. Great, the low possibility she had of taking them out just went below zero with the reduced visual. Handgun against semi automatics in the dark? Sure, big chance. It _could_ be possible if her body decided to evolve a nightvision ability in less than a minute. She smirked at her own irony, finding it somewhat amusing that her sense of sarcasm could remain intact even in situations like this.

Mireille wasn't an amateur in this field however, knowing fully that for completing this job, she really only needed to get one person. Her contract was to take down Renoir, bribed, rich politician in foreign trade department, not his bunch of trigger happy goons.

The game wasn't called Hit and Run for nothing.

Sending her last two bullets in the magazine in their average direction, Mireille picked herself up from the ground and ran, replacing the clip in her Walther while she bolted for the emergency exit. As a professional, one never took a job before doing the proper research; Renoir may be as slick as his kind came but being an average bribed politician, his resources weren't infinite like his hiding places. She had a good clue of where he was probably holing himself right now, probably waiting with even more security; it wasn't going to be a walk in the park. She needed to restock.

..................................................

Kirika watched the man from her position with a somewhat curious disposition. She had followed this man for days now. Playing with him in a small game all of her kind played. It was kind of like a cat and mouse game where they choose their next prey, and follow a particular human for days to observe them. Sometimes, the nightwalker would find them entertaining or even attractive, making the game into an actual obsession. It was not an uncommon thing for them to fall in love with humans. Those short-lived, frail creatures that, despite all their faults, could still accomplish so much fascinated some of her kind to extremes. It was a notion Kirika found hard to understand, if not undecipherable. Her games always ended the same, following the same morbid ritual of watching and observing. Sometimes, they would surprise or impress her but never, ever had she felt anything more.

In the end, it had always been the blood that called her to act. In the end, they were never more to them than she expected. Yet, even those of wisdom and age that passed hers by hundreds fell for the same game.

Some did it for jealousy. Those who had regretted their second birth and now wished a life that was not forever. Others did it to be reminded of life itself, by observing and sometimes even taking part of the human world around them as pretenders. And some did it directly out of cruelty, like a hunter that played with its prey before finally devouring it.

Kirika wasn't sure if she could place herself in any of the categories above. It was a sort of entertainment but never had she enjoyed the stalking like those who did it for terror. The process of scaring and tearing the reality around the victim bit by bit until she was satisfied sickened her. No, she was not one of those who did this for the perverse pleasure; neither did she desire the life of a human again since she frankly didn't remember hers. Her cause was never and yet, always the same. She chose, she observed and she fed. Never did she interfere or appear before them until the very end, when she could no longer hold back the cursed thirst.

Like this man. Kirika didn't have a clue as to why she had chosen him. He didn't look very good at the moment, which was no wonder since his office had just been under some kind of attack. He had escaped and ran off with a handful of guards to this apartment, barely escaping the raking gunfire. Someone obviously thought that his life was worth paying for. She knew he was a politician, deeply involved in some big case in the foreign business ministry which took a lot out of him. She also knew that he was a bribed asshole who had been using the tax changes in the foreign trade to scope money into his own pockets.

She watched him from the shadows the dark room. His hands were shaking, gripping the glass of whisky in his glass like if his life depended on it. The brown, stylishly cut hair looked tousled like the rest of his attire. This was clearly out of picture from his usual look, confident with well-groomed clothes and a dashing smile that spoke volumes of his career. He couldn't be more than in his late thirties at most without a hint of greyness in the hair, clearly a successful person worthy of envy.

Kirika mused while she watched him. He was a pretty man to look at. Physical appearances mattered in the choices of prey, for the same reason humans were attracted to each other. One could even say that her kind was even weaker against the temptations of beauty since their preferences were not hindered by separation of sexes. She took a small pleasure in watching him, this brilliant millionaire with a rocketing career shaking in terror at his unavoidable death. His death would come undoubtedly and it would be this night. He may have fled the assassin but he could not flee from her. As a matter of fact, he didn't even know that she was there, or that she had been following him around for more than a few weeks.

Frank Renoir would die tonight, but not by human hands.

She closed in on him soundlessly from behind, gracing his fine facial features with her eyes some final times before she would reveal herself. Concealing her breathing carefully, she felt how her excitement stirred as her mind screamed after the blood. If she was not careful, he would hear the sound of her breathing and such a mistake was unacceptable. He was turned towards the wall opposite her, staring at a painting of a woman in a green dress with almost obsessed intensity while taking another sip from his whisky.

The night sky was clouded tonight, luckily, since the lunar song would have set her instincts in action long ago. Kirika didn't like that; she wanted a slow game, one which she could enjoy in her own way.

It was time to let herself be known. She released the contained presence she had been holding in, stepping out from the shadows behind him while she waited for the man to react. The skill was a useful one in times like this. It was a kind of morbid formality, to let the victim have a last word before she took them.

Despite the alcohol, he wasn't slow with noticing the extra presence in the room. His back became stiff as he downed the last of the drink, slowly turning to face whoever was behind him. Kirika knew some who put up all kind of dramatic faces in this situation depending on what reaction they wanted out of the victim's last seconds. She never cared for those frivolities. Drama was just not her thing; she had her own ways of getting what she wanted and they worked. She merely looked at him while standing in the light from a table lamp beside the armchair, not giving him an ounce of expression but the usual soft demeanour. Removing her hands from her pockets, she showed him her unarmed state, leaving the judging of the situation wholly on him.

Renoir seemed surprised, if not stunned by her presence. He looked her up and down, like an uncle who was seeing an unwelcome niece. She had clearly not been what he was expecting. Neither did he throw a fit in questions about how she had passed the securities downstairs. The reaction surprised her. He was truly a remarkable man to remain so cool in a situation like this. Assassination and an unknown visitor in the same night could hardly be easy on one's nerves. She stayed calm, reeling in her body which screamed after the needed action at the sight of him.

She met his eyes, binding him by her gaze as she took a few steps forwards. Still no reaction. A little disappointed, she gave him an attempt at a smile, even if she doubted that it looked like one. Maybe he simply was one of those non talking ones. It would be pointless to drag it out, then. She strengthened her hold on him, his oval, Aryan face finally stretching into something that reminded her of dread while she stepped across the room, rounding the pieces of furniture. She had chosen a good victim, one who was soiled yet exceptional. He deserved the punishment for his crimes yet was interesting enough to be worth feeding on. His blood would be sweet, deliciously so when she would taste the sins and joys in his life.

_Who are you?_

The thoughts were loud screams of horror, frozen behind his eyes while his features remained calm. Maybe he wasn't as collected as she had thought.

_What do you want?_

Kill him? Yes and no, he would die but it was not really her intention. The game rules were like this, the human could not survive and she could do nothing about it.

She drew closer, now sensing the present fear on him in the smell of his sweat. His eyes had started to dart back and forth since he probably noticed the inability to move. Feeling no sympathy for the crumbling man before her, Kirika merely walked on. The man's heart was pounding like a furious drum, pumping his lifeblood in an out from his heart so fast that she was having difficulties to follow. It would soon be hers, she had to wait just a little more, just another extension of this moment and he would be hers.

Kirika breathed in, taking in his ludicrous smell of expensive perfume mixed with whisky. Her whole body was burning in anticipation, longing for the blood that soon would flow. The thirst smarted in her throat, ripples of excitement fluttering in her stomach making her almost dizzy. She opened her mouth, unable to further restrain the raging urge within her.

He must have seen her fangs, the two usually hidden sharp teeth that now unconcealed prodded from her upper mouth. Impossible long for a human, their solemn purpose being to be for the feeding, giving the bearer a grim, if not beastly look in appearance. His eyes widened at the sight of her, begging her in a non verbal way for mercy. Genuine terror now trembled through his limbs, reflected into her mind by his chaotic thoughts.

It was time.

The last thing he would see in life would be her attempt at a smile; it was all she could give him. She leaned in, now equally eager to begin the feast in both body and mind.

_What are you doi…?_

BANG

The moment of tranquil ecstasy was suddenly broken when the door slammed open. Kirika, for maybe the first time in her wakened life, did not have time to react as her senses were overflowed by her instinctual blood thirst. Two rapid followed shots echoed through the room, she was able to catch a glimpse of blonde hair in the poorly lit room when Renoir was suddenly thrown against the window, pushed by the force of the bullets that had penetrated his chest. He let out a croaked moan and fell, tumbling to the floor in an unceremonious heap before her. A wave of sudden dizziness flowed over her mind when the spell was broken; the shots had been bull's-eyes, killing him instantly without even giving him a chance to be surprised.

She reached out for support, for a moment thrown out of balance by the sudden death of her victim. His mind had faded like a shadow, taking all the impressions of fear and anticipation in that ending sequence with him. Her body reeled, already being concentrated on the given task and suddenly being thrown back was not a pleasant sensation. All the build-up of the moment came suddenly crashing down around her like a crumbling mountain.

This was new. No one had _ever _interrupted her.

Her facial muscles twitched in irritation, a very unfamiliar feeling for her as she turned around to the open door, still unstable on her feet, to face the killer who had ruined her meal.

A blonde woman stood by the table lamp, the light illuminating her features as Kirika stared at her indirect aggressor. Her hair was blonde, framing a pretty oval face with delicate yet sharp Aryan features in its length that reached a good bit down her back. The eyes that stared back at her were blue, not the soft, baby blue kind but sharp and intelligent ones, cutting into her body like icy arrows. The orbs were hard and possessed a dangerous glint as they glared at each other, both equally surprised at the other's presence.

Kirika straightened herself up, partly having recovered from the minor shock from the spell. The woman in front of her was beautiful. She had seen a lot of pretty women in her life, but this blonde was different. The hard-edged beauty that radiated from her was not in least due to the visual perfection of her face, neither the slender, well sculptured limbs of her agile, obviously feminine body. It was a straightforward kind of beauty that surrounded a dangerous and ruthless being; the feeling was like sharing the room with a panther, an intelligent creature ready to strike at any time. Still, there seemed to be a hint of tenderness hidden behind her eyes, well concealed but no doubt existing.

In a sense, Kirika was still a bit angry with the blonde intruder who had interrupted her game so bluntly. Even more of the irritation was directed at herself since she had allowed a _mortal_ to cause her such imbalance. Yet, in the dim light of the room, she was still unable to take her eyes off the gun-wielding femme fatale.

Mireille was slightly surprised when she had stormed the room to find Frank Renoir in the company of a teenaged girl. In all the research she had done, never did she come across anything that inclined that the man was in relations with a young female from eastern Asia. The girl was either Chinese or Japanese judging by the fine, almond shaped eyes. The even stranger thing was that she didn't look scared one bit, despite that the man she obviously was conversing with a moment ago now laid shot and dead by her feet. On the contrary, Mireille thought she saw a flash of annoyance pass her face at the sight of the assassin. The girl reached out a hand to steady herself against the wall, despite not even looking affected by the brutal murder that just took place in front of her.

The assassin scrutinized her figure beside the window. She was dressed in dark clothes, about 160 cm tall, pretty, delicate features with mousy dark hair and large eyes. Mireille estimated her to be high school aged or even younger. No one in Renoir's surroundings matched her description even close. She narrowed her brows in anger; there had obviously been a miss in her information and now there would be unnecessary casualties. The girl could not be allowed to live.

The soft eyes looked at her, staring so intensely that a slight shiver went down her spine. Despite her childish features, Mireille still briefly got the chilling impression of someone of far greater age and experience; as if her lithe body contained someone or something else that she could not see with her bare eyes.

She shrugged it off, what nonsense.

The girl didn't seem to notice the gun that was pointed at her but concentrated entirely on Mireille's face as if she was trying to engrave the blonde into her memory. Not a hint of dread could be seen on her calm, almost peaceful face while each of them stared at the other. Mireille felt how doubt swept though her heart when she looked at the girl's innocent, young face. But it could not be helped; there could be no witnesses in her field of expertise. She could not risk her own identity because of one girl, even if killing her would hurt. The small part of her heart that still recoiled at murder screamed in protest, but Mireille locked it away before her face could reveal any weaknesses.

Kirika reached out with her mind towards the woman, suddenly gripped by fascination for the female killer who so brutally had deprived her of her feeding. She smelled nice, like a flower she could not recall from her slumbering memories, despite the sweat and gunpowder that clung to her. The trip into the apartment had obviously not been an easy one. She detected a slight glint of regret in the intense, blue eyes, but it was dispelled quickly.

Her blood smelled even better, she had suffered a few scratches and cuts on her arms that were now bleeding, sending the - for Kirika - heavenly scent all over the room. The surge in her stomach returned, but now multiplied tenfold. She had neglected her thirst for weeks on end until finally settling for Renoir. Her body was reminding her of its demands, literally begging her to give in, screaming at her to feed on the beautiful assassin before her. But for some selftorturous reason, she would not give in, steeling herself against the primal urges like an unchained beast. Something in her held her back, and whatever that something was, it was stronger than six weeks worth of unfed thirst.

Not until then amidst her inner struggle did Kirika notice the weapon, which now was pointed at her.

Too late.

Mireille pressed the trigger, giving it her best aim since she wanted it to end fast, inflicting the minimal possible pain to the girl while killing her in the process. In other words, she aimed for her heart.

The sudden impact knocked the air out of Kirika's lungs. It sent her backwards against the window like Renoir. There was pain. Her shoulders and back were slammed into the glass, making her vision go grey as her head was thrown back, hitting hard against the cold material. The pain was greater than any she had experienced. She watched as in slow motion how the bullet reached her chest and hit her, piercing her heart that was pounding furiously in her ears. The pain was familiar; in all the blurry images of her past, she knew that she had gone through this before, and that she would survive it now like then. She looked at the woman in front of her. Sympathy was now evident in the blonde's eyes.

So alike and yet so different.

They both killed, apparently not for their own pleasures but due to the nature of their existence. Kirika could see that in her eyes. This woman was a killer, a real one. She was nothing like those howling half animals in the streets; she was one of those among men who had made it her living, a professional.

Her chest hurt. The intense pain pulsated through her body in white spasms, sending red spots dancing in front of her eyes. Her wounds were never fatal but the pain was still horrible. It struck Kirika that the blonde's shot had been out of mercy. This would have killed a normal human instantly, not because she was in a hurry but because she didn't want her to feel any pain in her last moments of death.

She sank to her knees. Her body's immortal flesh was already starting to reconstruct itself to heal the wound, repelling the bullets in her heart from the body even as she was breathing. But the task took efforts on the body itself, her eyelids became heavier when the familiar sensation that reminded her of sleep came over her. She would awake again in a few hours. Maybe it would be a good thing for the woman to believe her to be dead. It may be just a bit confusing if that perfect shot had not killed her.

Mireille watched with some surprise when the girl slowly fell to her knees, still transfixed on the blonde's face with those soulful reddish eyes. The girl continued to remain expressionless until she closed her eyes as if she was falling asleep instead of dying. There had been no anger in those eyes; not a flicker of hatred, freight or despair had painted the girl's last moments.

Mireille stepped forwards, catching the falling body in her arms and placing her down gently on the carpet. The girl was surprisingly light in her arms, her lithe body resting against Mireille's bigger frame like a feather. The cold touch of pale skin brushed against her bare arms, smooth like freshly spun silk. The darkhaired head came to a rest against Mireille's torso, like a child falling asleep. She didn't wear perfume as one would expect from a girl her age. Instead there was a faint odour of grass around her; she smelled like a wild garden during summertime, it was a sweet, genuine smell unfamiliar to the assassin, somewhat reminiscent of a childhood long past. The assassin stilled the guilty, unsettling feeling in her stomach and brushed a finger across the darkhaired girl's soft, delicate cheek.

The girl was beautiful; a young soul full of hopes and dreams, now vanquished by her hands like a candle that would never be lit.

_Please forgive me._

To her surprise, the girl had what could be taken for a smile on her face. Not a joyful expression but simply a soft, innocent curl of her lips, giving her peaceful demeanour an almost happy impression as her whole face seemed to glow in childish beauty. Mireille steeled her heart from guilt at the heartbreaking sight in front of her. Placing the girl's arms across her chest, she mumbled a silent prayer and stood up to leave.

The girl lay there, still bleeding from her chest while smiling at the leaving assassin with closed eyes, as if she was trying to tell the departing blonde something.

_Until we meet again._

TBC

* * *

...And YES, I am gonna go the Noir, a name bestowed by... rant rant... at the start of every chapter. Why? ... ;...Why not?


	3. Hunter and Prey

Waaahwahwahwah!!! X( I'm so sorry, but I am back to give you probably the shortest chapter in the whole shebang. This is mostly just a in-between chapter with no real plot development. I'm sorry but my work is taking so much time than I originally planned it to. (Technical support, meaning I'm on a team that repair hunking big machines when they go bananas, which they seem to do gladly on regular basis --.)

* * *

**Epitaph 2 - Hunter and Prey**

Mireille closed the door soundly behind her as she walked into the apartment. Throwing her handbag and jacket over the halfwall, that separated her living room and sleeping quarter, she went straight to the kitchen to pour herself some well deserved tea. The utensils and cup were on the table before long; while waiting for the water to boil, Mireille sat down at her simple table and began to massage her aching temples. The day had been a stressful one. Running across the whole town, chasing her underworld contacts for information was neither an easy nor enjoyable task. The maybe most irritating thing was that the reason for the whole brain taxing issue was a completely nonsensical one; it didn't involve any big sums of money or even a new job. Quite on the contrary, it was about the last one, the one she had done and successfully completed yesterday night.

The job to take out Frank Renoir had seemed like a rather simple hit to begin with: simply another corrupted politician with a hefty sum of money down his throat. Those stories weren't exactly rare nowadays; it was something any second rate assassin could have performed without much of a hassle. The complication with the security had got a little out of hand, sure, but such things were to be expected from this line of work; nothing ever went by the books, so it was nothing that had been outside of her expectations. You had to compromise and take risks, even if she usually preferred not to. A part of being a professional included getting the job done as neatly as possible, and by her books, that was something she excelled at.

Yesterday's hit had turned rather nasty for two reasons. First, the little run in with heavy armed security that had _not_ been specified in the information she received; she would need a little pay chat with her client again. Second, the girl.

Killing an innocent was nothing she was proud of, but it had been a necessity given the circumstances. There were simply no other solutions. After coming home by the break of dawn, Mireille fell asleep right away, exhausted to her bones. The sleep brought her little rest however as the visual of the girl had swum on the brink of her mind all through the night. Soulful, maroon eyes stained with red had filled her dreams until she woke around lunchtime. The guilt she had felt upon the killing had been dispelled soon after she left Renoir's apartment, but for some reason, the girl lingered in her memory, refusing to let her go.

Confused and somewhat annoyed with herself, Mireille had decided to check the news, hoping to learn her name so she could pay a visit to the graveyard. It was all she could do for an innocent victim of her own bloody path. Having already decided to buy lilies, she made breakfast in a downcast mood. She had killed innocents before; simple people in the wrong place at the wrong time, deaths that had been necessary to keep her identity concealed. There were faces of laughter, cries and unrestrained horror; the faces her victims showed her were many and she had since long learned to repel the crushing remorse that haunted everyone in the beginning. But never in her long experience, had anyone looked at her with eyes like that girl. Her features had been covered by shadows in the weak light of a table lamp, but the image in Mireille's memory did not waiver. Neither dread nor fright had touched her at the sight of her obvious death.

She had simply stood there, looking at the assassin. Almost like if she was _admiring_ her, with a face bearing no hate whatsoever. The memory of the intensity of those eyes still chilled Mireille to the bone. Not even a hint of anger towards her aggressor had been present in the rather blank face. The girl had simply closed her eyes, fallen on her knees, and gone to her death. As if there had been nothing she regretted.

The water was done. Mireille poured herself a cup of the bitter liquid, squinting slightly at the taste while she reached for the sugar. She never learned the trick with tea, her brews always turned out either too strong or tasteless.

Anyway, the whole thing had still seemed rather simple by the time she was browsing for the news on her computer. The scoop hounds had indeed already taken their feast. The assassination was all over the place with earlier pictures of Renoir and a political analysis of the man's career. Like always, it was most a bunch of bull, plainly written to draw the curiosity of more readers. She browsed on between the topics. Civilian deaths in those cases were usually made headliners, and you could expect a whole biography sometimes, where even her favourite pair of socks would be listed.

To her utter surprise, there had been nothing. Not a single word about another victim was to be found on any news server on the net but the names of Renoir and his dozen of security guards. The possibility of missing an extra dead body in the room was laughable. It was as if the girl had never existed to the news, despite the haunting images in Mireille's mind. Unable to believe it, Mireille called around her contacts; even there, one man who was responsible for body inspection assured her the facts.

Twelve casualties. Renoir and eleven security guards. All male.

To her frustration, the whole underworld seemed to share the same information. No one had seen or even heard of the corpse of a young female in this particular incident.

Mireille sipped her tea slowly, narrowing her brows at the slight headache that drummed against her cranium. That put her in her current situation. She knew it hadn't been a dream. The assassin could still recall the touch of the girl's cold skin when she had placed her on the floor. Could someone really, for lack of better theories, have cleaned the girl away? Her presence in Renoir's apartment was questionable to start with; if she indeed had been there on someone's order, things could turn complicated. Organizations seldom liked to have their more valuable subordinates wasted, and judging by her appearance, the girl was hardly a low-levelled escort. The other possibility was that she had been a guest, which was rather unbelievable too. Judging by her reactions, she would have to be very used to killing to not even flinch at the violent death scene before her. If she indeed was a more important agent for someone, then Mireille would have to lay low for some time, at least until the whole thing died down.

But if that was the case, why hadn't the girl even tried to flee or fight back? Why had she simply stood there, looking at Mireille like if she had been the question mark in the whole equation? Everyone, even those among the underworld valued their life, right?

She couldn't have just stood up and walked away, could she?

Looking out from her window, she let out another sigh. The sun had set some time ago; she was in no mood to do more searching even if the whole thing was literally, boggling her mind.

And, oh yeah, dinner…

...........................................................................................

Mireille Bouquet: twenty years old, professional hitwoman and renowned for impossible solo jobs. She was quite the name in the underworld, with a price tag to make up for her efficiency. That was all there had been to find about the blonde, who was now struggling with the lid of a soup can, which meant that she was good. A well-known assassin was seldom a long-lived one.

Kirika watched the woman's movements in the trivial task from the roof opposite of the blonde's apartment. The sun was finally setting, giving her a lot of shadows to hide in, thus making her near impossible to detect by human eyes. She graced the blonde's motions with an indifferent expression. Long, slender limbs stretched; the well tuned muscles flexed beneath her slight tanned skin, while her face twisted into an irritated grimace. Kirika's jaw muscles softened a bit in amusement when woman below gave the lid a final, almost violent tug and victoriously removed the obstacle between herself and her dinner. Victory was hard earned however as the last move sent half of the contents across her kitchen floor.

Kirika's amusement rose with the blonde's temper, when Mireille threw up her arms in the air, muttered a few well-chosen insults before retrieving her jacket and leaving the apartment in angry steps. She was going to eat out tonight for obvious reasons.

With a half-long coat in deep purple covering her slender frame, the assassin emerged into the street, her every notion being followed, examined and analyzed by a pair of curious, reddish-brown eyes.

Her high-heeled black boots, covering her long, elegant legs knee-high and below, clattered against the hard stone pavement in her stride. The boots were matched with an equally dark miniskirt. Not one of those over-revealing things that screamed for attention, but a simple piece of clothing, fashionable yet practical, wrapped around her beautiful figure in a quite intimidating way that undoubtedly turned a few heads. Kirika's eyes wandered and stopped at the image of the pale and teasingly inviting flesh of her neck. She had to steer her mind elsewhere to not get utterly distracted by the temptation that flowed beneath the flawless skin.

The woman was a visual of female glory; dangerous, sharp and savagely beautiful, a double edged sword for those who dared to get near her.

Kirika moved her hand to her torso, where the blonde assassin had shot her the previous night. The wound was almost completely healed now but still ached now and then. It was a testament of perfection in the assassin's aim, considering the damage the bullet had caused on her immortal body. It had struck her straight in the heart, the massive shock causing her body to temporarily go into limbo for the healing sleep; a sleep which for human eyes would seem a lot like death, since most of the bodily functions were halted.

She had woken just a few hours later at the break of dawn, accompanied by Renoir's corpse and the certain familiar numbness that always followed the unnatural sleep. She had been alone in a room that stunk of dead blood and whisky. Her now dead victim hadn't occupied her attention for long before she set out from the building, making her way to a safe rooftop close by before collapsing against a chimney, maybe for the first time in her memory actually feeling such distinct physical fatigue. She had not been able to feed like she planned to; the thirst was almost worse than the weariness as she felt how her powers flickered, no longer being the solid wall of steel which she was so used to relying on.

And all because of the woman who was now making her way down the street, steering her steps towards a small café to eat dinner.

But she would not take her. Not yet at least. She would not let herself so swiftly vanquish this female zenith of human visual, despite the fact that every fibre of her being screamed for her blood.

Kirika had had her share of encounters with human killers in her years. Brutal people stripped of even the small trace of dignity and light this world had to offer in their lives. Those who took humanity's dark road seldom had anything to regret or lose. They were the ones who knew the fragility of man's truths and morals better than anyone else, and therefore they would shamelessly indulge themselves in the joys and pleasures of the human world as if every day were their last. Those cheap cigars and rose perfumed bodies were, for what they knew, all their life would ever offer them. They were men and women who killed and took with no regrets, knowing that this world would never forgive them more than they would return in kind.

But this Bouquet woman seemed different. Kirika narrowed her brows in concentration, collecting her intellect and sense to the sharp degree she preferred it to be, tucking whatever her primal urges told her to do at the far back of her mind. There would be time for that later; she would still have to feed soon due to the loss of blood she had suffered yesterday, but not now. Not when the object of her most recent fascination was sitting in a small, cosy café a street apart from her, mindlessly browsing through what looked like today's paper while sipping her coffee. There was not a trace of buried regret or anguish in her stature and pose that spoke of the burdens of her crimes. Her fine, royal face lit up in a delightful, elegant smile when the waiter arrived with her order, totally throwing the poor young man's grace to the wind.

There were no signs of stress in her movements. No hurry or need to forget and bury her deeds in the heavenly pleasures Paris offered at night. She was not like those animals; the muck and stains of her profession did not seem to stick or fester on her. This woman was not rushing down the bloody path of murder. She was walking it, and she was walking it with her head held high, on a road above the blood and sin that threatened to devour man's soul at every turn.

Fascinating creature; to keep her burden away from surrounding eyes was impressive, but even being able to live out a fairly normal part of life among everyday people? Such a thing was rare indeed.

The blonde had placed down the paper, now mindlessly staring out of the window while observing the movements of the by passers. She seemed to drift off for awhile, temporarily forgetting the salad before her until the young waiter passed her by again - rather obviously intentionally - to ask if anything was wrong. After sending the young man off with a few reassuring words and another equally disarming smile, she continued with her meal, only interrupting once more to wave back at a small child who waved with his balloon at her.

Kirika immersed herself in the task of observing the woman's every motion as the blonde slowly ate her dinner. She watched how the fork moved from plate to the tip of her lips and back again; how she steadily held the dining tool, wrapping long, elegant fingers around the silvery metal; and how she casually leaned against her other arm on the table, now and then brushing her long, flowing hair out of her face. But contrary to the other customers and waiters of the place, Kirika did not miss the still dangerous presence that lingered around the blonde, despite the triviality of the scene displayed below her.

It takes a killer to know another.

The weeks spent on following Renoir around hadn't been a waste, not at all. In fact, the late bribed politician had, maybe by his little misdeeds and putting a price on his own head, led her to what looked like would be the best hunt she had had in quite a while.

Mireille Bouquet. Professional high-class hitwoman. Kirika wondered how long her fascination would last before the urge for her prey's blood would overcome her senses. She hoped that it would be a long one, since this woman seemed, or promised to be, rather interesting in a game.

But first, she would need to feed. And fast, because she wanted to be back before the woman finished dinner and entered her apartment, so she could have the pleasant amusement of watching when the blonde would have to face her soup covered kitchen floor.

* * *

I'll write more soon…hopefully… :dodges piano: ;


	4. A Game of You

Longer chapter this time, which is good in all it's lengthy glory, but also means that the wait for the next one will be longer. :p Life's little whims.

Oh well, with one prologue and 2 chapters down the hatch, I think it's more or less time to getting started on the story. Don't have to high expectations since I never started this with the intention of beating Noir's original splendour when it comes to plot, or even getting close to a quarter of it. Interaction between Mireille and Kirika is however always fun to write, and making one of them a little more alien will certainly prove a challenge.

I hope everyone is having a good read, on my part, I certainly am having a good write. Even if it takes up a lot of time….

Now, lets ignore me and see what the both of our ladies are up to. =)

* * *

_Noir.___

_A name bestowed by ancient fate,_

_Sacrifice given in death by wish,_

_The blood of lambs forever protected,_

_By tears staining the blackened path._

* * *

**Epitaph 3 –** **A Game of You **

****

_She had a lover._

_A hint of a smile on rosy lips and a slow caressing hand against her bared shoulder blades; light, childish laughter filled with joy, filling her ears while they walked down a blackened path. The moon, a pale plate of frosty white upon the sky, was their only guide in the impenetrable darkness surrounding them, shedding them a ray of light to guide their steps on the uneven road. _

She didn't want this.

_The stone pebbles cut into her bare feet as they walked. There was wind, a warm caressing breeze that smelled of summer and berries, soothing her cold skin like the warm breath of a mother, comforting her in their seemingly aimless wander. But despite the comfort, her body was still shaking; shaking in the bitter coldness against her chest that seemed to emanate from nowhere but her own heart._

She never wanted this.

_But despite all the doubtful feelings in her heart, despite the fear that was threatening to take over her trembling limbs, and despite the pain in her bleeding feet, she walked on, guided by the warm hand gripping her own, trusting a love she could not see._

_They walked side by side, hand in hand, together like they should always be; like their fates were intertwined, like their souls were merged and like their hearts unified in a steady, comforting rhythm. The pain seemed to diminish as a warm shoulder nudged her own in a playful way, ensuring her of the other's presence despite the fact that their eyes could not meet. A flicker of silky hair touched her face, letting her take in the brief odour of ground roses before it disappeared back into the shadows, swallowed again by the empty dark._

She was scared.

_Their pace picked up and she soon found herself settling into a wild sprint, flying over the rock filled ground and through, what seemed to be, an eternal night. Her lover's laughter filled her ear. It was a sound of joy, of happiness; a cry, of heartbroken sadness; and a scream, of despair, of deepest, utter anguish. She tried, but could not comprehend the chaotic emotions in the ear shattering sound, but it pained her to hear her lover's suffering. It pained her so yet she could do nothing._

_Yet they ran, as fast as their legs would carry them, steered by the moon towards the dark field ahead._

_This was true._

Lies.

_This is real._

Fabrication.

_This was meant to be._

No.

Kirika woke up with a gasp, her senses snapping back to reality and automatically focusing on her immediate surroundings in full alarm, stirred by the troublesome content of her dream. Contents she was no longer able to remember in any detail, but troublesome they indeed had been. Her forehead was bathed in cold sweat, a very unnatural reaction for her body to have in any kind of situation, which spoke volumes about whatever she had forcibly been confronted with during her sleep. It must have been highly unpleasant for her unguarded subconscious mind.

She seldom had dreams like most of her kind. Dreams were fragments of a mortal's life, where the body and the mind needed to reflect and consider the passing day on a level where the man was not able to interfere and disturb. She knew that some could attain the ability of dream visions when they reached a certain age; those were, however, a blunt handful of elders who all had long since retired from the world of the living. Age was a burden that none living could truly escape, mortal or not. Memories, like the mind, became easily tired from the passing of eons, and from what Kirika believed, you would simply lose interest when you could no longer remember even the smallest fragment of your living life.

Not an entirely cheery thought, if she considered her own semi-amnesiac situation.

The first morning light had broken already and was staring her straight in the eyes, making it rather hard to see for even her. Irritated over the rather painful position she was sitting in, she tried to lift her hand to block out the annoying light. A screaming bell of alarm, telling her that something was wrong, went off like a gunshot in her head when she noticed that she could not move her arm; even worse, she couldn't move _either_ of her hands. The immediate feeling that shot down her spine was not fear, however, when all her senses finally settled from the unpleasant dream, unifying all the impressions they sent her into a whole, flawless picture. She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

She was sitting with her back against some kind of wall, made out of steady, polished wood, the blank texture actually serving as a rather pleasant support to sleep against. She was looking at a certain window when lifting her head, though this had been rather normal since much of her recent occupation had consisted of doing just that. The disturbing thing she discovered was that this was exactly the same window belonging to the assassin's apartment, but from the _wrong_ side.

She was in Mireille Bouquet's apartment, or more gravely, she had woken within it.

Now this would not entirely have been out of place either, since she had paid a few visits when the woman was sleeping. She had come to like the place quite a bit. Bouquet had furnished the small place in a stylish, but not extravagant way that spoke of a rational and practical mind. She did not bother with frilly details of "home feelings" but kept everything from her plants to her walls in a simple and tidy manner. She did not drown herself in richness and pleasantries as one would expect of someone who walked a road of such danger. A small but important aspect of her personality that raised her position in Kirika's immediate respect; materialism was clearly a concept that passed this woman by.

While the apartment was as clean and tidy as ever, there was one issue that hindered Kirika in fully enjoying her unwanted presence in the place.

She was unable to move her hands, or more correctly, she couldn't.

Her arms had been bent in a rather uncomfortable position behind her head, tied up judging by the feeling, in rough ropes that efficiently bent her hands out of reach from each other. It was a binding technique that would have left a human practically helpless towards whomever that was the aggressor. While not being afraid for her own safety, she could draw some obvious conclusion about her situation.

Bouquet knew she was here. Who else could have tied her up? The more curious thing was how the woman had managed to get her into this position with her life apparently intact. There were no signs of blood and struggle around the room; she could therefore, rather relieved, rule out the possibility that she had already fed on the woman. There was the possibility that the assassin had shot her again, though she could not recall going through such an event the previous night. There was, in either case, no reason for her to remain like this as her muscles were aching, protesting against the unnatural position they had been forced into.

But as she leaned forwards, straining her arms to break free from the ropes, she had to bite her lips hard to repress a pained scream. Hot, searing pain suddenly shot down her limbs in furious pulses as she tried to move; each of her staggering movements causing another wave of the torturous sensation to erupt within her like water bursting from a broken dam. Kirika threw her back against the wall, hitting her head against the wood behind with a thud as she steeled herself against the unknown source of torment.

Her muscles cramped, causing her to instinctually pull her limbs together into a crouched position. She closed her eyes to focus, trying to bring her mind back together to steel herself against the sudden shock. Resting her forehead against her knees for support, she regained her breath while trying to soothe the savage feeling of hot iron against her skin. She drew a few ragged breaths, vision going blurry for a few seconds while trying to calm down. Her mind worked furiously at the puzzle.

Not until then did she slowly notice the slight burden of an object hanging around her neck, resting heavily against her chest like a prisoner's nametag. A glimpse of silvery metal caught Kirika's eyes as she slowly began to recall the events of the previous night.

---------------------------------------------------------

Kirika had entered the apartment around midnight, having followed the blonde woman's day from a safe distance as usual. Acting like a flickering shadow in the periphery, she had observed her every motion out of surprisingly childish curiosity. She hadn't been wrong about her choice of prey; in the passing of her ten waking years, none of her humans had fascinated her like this one. Kirika found herself being completely absorbed and almost overly studious about every detail the woman put into her daily routines. No notion or task seemed trivial when it was performed by Bouquet; even the mundane job of cleaning could suddenly become a task of fascination when performed by her. She watched the blonde move about in her apartment, picking up various items and taking out the trash, as if she was a regular Parisian lady instead of the renowned hitwoman she was. While it had been the frozen eyes of a natural killer that drew her, she had to admit that she slowly came to appreciate the 'normal' side of the assassin even more.

Like any other woman her age, Mireille Bouquet held a rather – in Kirika's opinion – obsessive interest in fashion. While her sense of dressing resembled her way of furnishing in the manner of rationalism, it was by no means plain. Kirika found herself rather enjoying watching the blonde dressing up in one outfit after another, only giving herself a quick glance in the mirror before disregarding the clothes with a small smirk and a shake of head - to the store clerks' distress. The clothes she chose were always resourceful and simple, yet elegant and striking in a way that surpassed those typical extravagantly clad women Kirika had seen in the Parisian streets. This blonde was not about temptation but intelligence. She was a sharp, well-oiled edge against your throat; a smile that dared you to act, and eyes - frozen pools of sky, aiming their unsaid challenge at whoever was courageous enough to meet them.

The woman was a femme fatale to the core. Men and woman alike looked up when she passed in her stride. Maybe unaware of it, she was truly what humans meant with being one in a million. Men wanted her and women wanted to be her; desire and envy was evident in the many passing faces. Mireille paid it no heed however, to Kirika's surprise. She was with no doubt aware of the attention but simply passed it by, making it quite clear through her presence and pose that she was not, and wouldn't be, trifled with lightly. And luckily, people got that down.

She also noticed that the assassin held a fondness for walks, especially to the riverbank of the Seine. More than once a day had Kirika found herself watching the beautiful blonde staring off into the deep coloured water.

While she doubted that the woman had any kind of romanticized image of the river's heavily polluted water, it was easy to guess that she found the water relaxing in a meditating way. While the nightwalker could not get in close enough to catch the woman's mind, she could see that whenever those ice blue eyes were fixed on the water, her thoughts were clearly drifting along the waves. It was hard to guess her thoughts since this woman seemed to be an ice queen, one who never showed her true colours beyond her doors. But by the few expressions Kirika had managed to catch, it was evident that whatever path the woman's mind was taking during those moments, it was far from happy ones.

Yesterday had been another day of shopping after a quick visit to the library. The darkhaired nightwalker took that this was how the assassin spent her days between the jobs; in a rather relaxed, if not vacation-like way in the streets of Paris, enjoying the bustling metropolis like any other young, university-aged woman would. A complete contrast to the experienced shadow killer that had efficiently, and mercifully, taken Kirika down weeks ago.

Keeping her distance from the blonde and moving around during the day, she had changed her attire to something more fitting for her physical age. She wore the same dark coloured parka but now open in the front, ignoring the chilly spring air since the elements couldn't harm her more than they would a stone. A rather plain looking, high collared sweater in cornflower blue with a single white stripe across the abdomen covered her upper part while she-after doing some studying on what the girls around wore- settled for a pair of light beige jeans to match it. Looking around and finding herself blending easily into the groups of high school aged youngsters, to the extent where one boy actually flashed her a disarming smile which she did not return, she was rather pleased.

After returning to the apartment, Mireille had sat down to do her daily catch up on the news in front of her laptop, which Kirika guessed served as her link to her underworld connections. She herself returned to her regular spot on the roof of the apartment across the street where she had spent the afternoon in complete silence, hiding herself in the shadows to observe another evening in the blonde woman's life.

The clock had been a little after one in the morning when Kirika opened the apartment door and soundlessly glided into the darkened hall. The laptop was still on the pool table, papers and documents were strewn around in a chaotic order. It looked like if Mireille had underlined a few parts among the massive amount of text, probably some preparations done for another job; judging by the detailed research she was doing, the woman planned her hits well, as expected. She could hear the assassin's somewhat unsteady breath behind the half-wall that separated the living room from her sleeping area; the rhythm was a bit off compared to her regular pace, probably caused by an unpleasant dream.

While she never had seen the apartment in daylight, she certainly liked it at night. The light fragrance of tea mixed with the pleasant, flowery scent of Mireille herself covered every corner of the room. It was a smell Kirika had found intoxicating at first, but as the days passed and she got used to it, became strangely soothing instead of being the tempting lure that could trigger her thirst by mistake.

An orchid, the sole plant in the whole apartment, was nearly in its blooming stage where it was placed beside the window. She could already smell the sweet nectar that lay hidden among its purple shaded petals; if only it was watered properly, the flower would with no doubt flourish within days. A half eaten baguette with a few leafs of lettuce lay on her unfinished dinner plate on the rather Spartan looking table, accompanied by a, now lukewarm pot of tea, and an emptied cup. Dinner had been a hasty business this afternoon and been made up mostly by whatever her fridge had offered.

Kirika was lost in her own trail of thoughts as she made a small round in the apartment, taking in the small differences in the interior prior to yesterday. Some small corner of her mind that still possessed what was left of her humanity sent a small twinge of awkwardness down her spine, making her feel like the intruder she was. She ignored it, however, having done this countless of times before with her earlier victims; though this one felt special, it would be of little matter in the end. The blonde woman would die, and the nightwalker intended to affect her life as little as possible until then.

Kirika steered her steps towards the small stairs, that led to the apartment's sleeping area where the blonde now lay, by the sound of her happily snoozing off in dreamland. The dark haired girl could see a pair of slender, tanned legs from where she stood. Bouquet slept in her usual sleeping attire consisting of a loose fitting shirt, which - in Kirika's opinion – looked casual but good on her. Stopping for a brief moment at the wall to confirm the woman's slow, now steady breath, she stepped up. The bad dreams must have left her as she had made her round in the living room.

Eager to see the beautiful woman's sleeping features, she rounded the wall. While the girl was fascinated and drawn by the woman's azure eyes, she found by no means the face of a sleeping Mireille disappointing. Even in her most rested and relaxed state, the woman was an impressive sight to behold. Not until the closure of her eyes could one fully see the perfection of her long, delicate looking eyelashes; nor the almost sacred glory her face emitted, in a state when she let all the walls and shields down for the onlooker to see. It was not the face of the icy, sharp and potentially dangerous femme fatale, but a young woman - vulnerable and fragile amidst the darkness of the world. It was also then the nightwalker realized just how young the assassin was, barely a few years senior her physical body, yet already so painfully burdened.

A small twinge of something had fluttered in Kirika's heart the first time she had seen that sleeping face. Something that stirred among the sea of forgotten memories that leapt back at her from their banishment in the abyss. A voice of laughter, a plea and the taste of tears, so much did she make out before the memory had crumbled again, thrown back after hitting whatever wall that restrained them in the first place.

It had been a strong feeling, with an almost painful edge to it; and sometimes, Kirika thought that she could almost recall the blurry vision of an unfamiliar face before her memories diminished into nothingness again.

It was a curious emotion, so distant and far too human for her to place.

However, Kirika was immediately jolted out from her delusions when she rounded the wall. What met her was not the peaceful demeanour of the sleeping beauty as she expected, but wide-awake sky coloured orbs, filled with icy anger that stared directly at her. Not through her or past her but _at_ her, directly into her eyes, despite that she was hiding herself in the shadows. The shocking realization made Kirika's mind go temporarily into limbo as her senses re-adjusted with the new situation she suddenly had at hand. This had never, _ever_ happened before. Taken pessimistically, it was quite a blow to her skills; a _mortal _had just – for lack of better terms – busted her.

A metallic clicking sound snapped her out of the shocking surprise, however; her feet burst into an instinctual reflex, leaping towards the blonde at the same time as the first bullet struck her.

The assassin was out of the bed in the second when Kirika was thrown back by the bullet's impact, pain dazzled her mind. Luckily, it had not been a bull's-eye this time, the bullet had knocked a hole in one of her lungs and passed through under her right shoulder blade, spraying a gush of her blood against the assassin's white wall. While the damage would not hurt her, it did slow her down for just the one tiny second which was all the blonde seemed to need to re-coordinate her actions. Rolling over the bed and landing at the other end of it, the blonde fired another two shots at Kirika which she dodged, throwing herself flat on the bed.

Taking the opportunity at hand, Mireille made a dash for the living room. Kirika, still confused at how the events had turned and caught off guard by her failure in skill, threw out an arm to hinder the blonde in her path. Her confusion obviously affected her usual litheness, however; she only managed to graze the woman's nightshirt as Mireille dodged skilfully out of the way, sending another bullet in a mid-jump to where Kirika's head had been located a second prior.

The nightwalker followed only moments after, throwing her body forwards from the stairs and breaking the fall into a roll as another rapid series of gunshots raked the floor behind her. Desiring no second bullet to impale her body, she took the tactical decision to continue the rolling motion until she felt her body hit against the dining table, while sensing the blonde's never failing aim ripping up thumb sized holes in the wood behind, showering her hair with splinters.

Kicking out against the table legs, she overturned the whole table with the blonde's tea and dinner onto the floor with an unceremonious crash. She rolled under the falling furniture just in time before the table board crashed down vertically behind. The cover came just in time, as another bullet grazed her left shoulder, making her twinge in pain. There, behind the temporarily safe haven from the female sharpshooter's bullets, Kirika managed to catch her breath and reflect on one strange, if not terrifying notion she had noticed in the preceding chain of events.

Her powers were not responding.

Something was blocking them from her reach. It had first stricken her when being hit by the first bullet. Mireille had actually managed to escape, despite the fact that she had not been holding back in her speed; during normal circumstances, the blonde should not even have been able to see her coming. Something was causing her limbs and senses to act sluggishly, as if heavy weights had been attached to them, making it impossible for her to reach the blonde in any painless way she would have preferred. It was ridiculous, it was laughable, but she doubted she would even be able to make the dash towards the pool table which served as the blonde's cover. And it was probably the same something that had revealed her from the shadows, making her detectable to the human eye.

Frustrated at the turn of events, Kirika coughed and spat out a mouthful of her own blood that her body had rejected from her lung. The wound was already healing, but was still bleeding; the burnt tissue and torn veins were merging, and binding together again. She could almost feel how the wound was closing up on her back and chest as she took another pained breath. She was rather lucky that the bullet had missed her spine with a few inches in its path. Despite possessing an immortal body, the nightwalkers still had their own field of healing mechanisms like the human body, and the spine, together with her heart and head were among the places she knew she would rather not be hit in.

Another few bullets slammed into the table board behind her, one of them finally ripping a hole through the thin wooden material, passing by Kirika's ear by a hair and leaving her with a whistling sound in her ears. It was lucky that the assassin was the sole tenant of this apartment complex with her closest neighbour being in the next house, or someone would since long have alerted the police.

It had not been her intention to fight the woman, ever. This was supposed to have been like her other games, the same watch and feed procedure she always did now and then. She never wanted to meddle in the woman's life or get involved in anything at all in the human world, especially one which she had developed a surprising fondness for over those recent weeks. However, the current situation left her little choice. The Bouquet woman would have to die, far earlier than she had planned to feed on her but the task's needed immediacy was final. A mortal could not be permitted to know about her existence.

As if reacting to her own thoughts, the dark haired girl sprung into action. Waiting out another round of the frenzied gunfire that was aimed at her, she dived out from behind the cover, intending to give the woman no time to re-load or recover. As expected, Mireille reacted to the approaching steps immediately, leaning over the table just enough to take aim as she prepared to fire another round. But Kirika was prepared, her arm lashing out, hauling one of the blonde's simple chairs with her in the dash. At the first sight of the woman's head bobbing up over the pool table's edge, she flung the chair across the room towards the assassin with all her might and aim while pumping her legs even harder to increase her speed. She only had one chance at this in her weakened state; Bouquet would doubtfully be able to kill her under any circumstances but still, being outwitted by a human was unacceptable. The assassin could not be underestimated.

The chair had clearly not been what the blonde had been expecting as she reeled back, bringing up her other arm in defence from the flying weight of metal and plastic that was flung at her. A soft thud of metal against flesh told Kirika that her aim had been true.

A small hiss of pain slipped from the blonde's lips as she struggled to knock the chair off her instead of diving under the table. This little mistake bought Kirika the milliseconds she needed. Not trusting her legs to carry her over the table in one leap as they usually would, she took support from her arms against the green, now ripped, cloth of the table surface in a half-somersault.

With a swift kick in midair, the chair was gone, smashed into the outer wall with an ear-shattering clang, barely missing the orchid where it stood beside the window. Kirika landed with her both knees on either side of the blonde woman's midsection, slamming her body down onto the woman with her whole weight, finally gaining the closeness she needed to nullify the effectiveness of the gun.

Mireille let out a gasp at the quick and unexpected body slam that knocked most of the air out of her lungs. However, she proved herself to not be so easy, as another shot ran through the night. Kirika let out a small cry as her left shoulder was thrown out, the bullet having ripped through the bones that connected her skeleton together, leaving her left arm temporarily useless in the struggle.

With only one arm remaining, she managed to grab the gun arm of the frantic woman, earning her a blow in her solar plexus while using her weight to hold the woman down. Things were easier said than done, however, as Mireille was naturally a taller woman, making the girl nightwalker the lighter of the two. She managed to twist, with her reduced and quickly draining strength, the blonde's arm to such a uncomfortable degree that the woman cried out in pain, finally letting go of the gun, which fell to the floor with a metallic, empty clatter.

Droplets of the sky met crimson-brown, entailing the both of them in a silent understanding.

One of them would be killed, and the next set of minutes would decide whom.

Kirika had wrapped the fingers of her one functional arm around Mireille's throat, pressing down hard to close the air passage to render the woman unconscious. The blonde gasped under her, kicking her legs upwards, shoving her knees forcefully against her back to knock Kirika out of balance; this while clawing her fingers against the dark haired girl's arm, desperately trying to get free from the deadly lock Kirika had on her.

A shadow of desperation passed over the blonde's features. Her resistance did not decline despite her hopeless situation as she reached up and struck Kirika over the face with her longer arms. The darkhaired girl was not amused and winced slightly at the slap, wishing that her body would hurry with the healing process to restore her arm which still hung haphazardly limp by her side as the pain got the better of her. A flicker of regret and sadness touched her in the heart at the sight of the beautiful blonde's panicked struggle below her. Mireille's face had turned a slight shade of blue due to the lack of oxygen. She whimpered in pain at the iron grip around her throat that was slowly, but surely, crushing her windpipe.

Kirika had not wanted her like this. She never liked to take her victims by force but preferred to use the seduction of mind to gain what she wanted.

Still, her blood was racing. The touch of the struggling, warm body under her sent her mind into white anticipation of the sweet taste that soon would follow. Oh the temptation of drowning in the forbidden pleasure the woman's bodily blood offered her, how she longed for that. Her instincts screamed at her to act, to feed. Now. Here. With nothing to lose but the life of one mere mortal, another in the long line of souls used to vanquish her unearthly thirst.

Kirika leaned downwards, towards the neck of the still struggling blonde below her. Mireille's movements were less aggressive now and lacked the strength to properly cause the nightwalker any problems. Her blue, so blue, eyes were unfocused, probably due to the strangle hold that effectively hindered her from breathing. Intelligent, deep orbs of wonder, soon to be forever still by the misdeed of her hand. Her mouth hung open, spluttering strangled, dry noises, leaving her face in a panicked expression very unlike her usual cool demeanour.

A small part of her that had still not given in to the bloodrage screamed at Kirika to stop, that it was still not too late to get out of here, out of her life, and carry on like nothing ever happened. It was, however, quickly overpowered by the ludicrous craving that clouded the darkhaired girl's mind, the bloodlust naturally blocking out all sensible thoughts, leaving only the raging demon that lusted after its sacrifice. Drawing a deep breath of air, Kirika hissed, finally revealing the beastly fangs that now prodded out from her upper jaw.

The assassin's eyes snapped into attention again at the sight of horror above her, whatever cloudiness that had dimmed her eyes now thrown to the winds as she doubled her efforts and strength in pushing the darkhaired girl away. She gritted her teeth and let out a pained, gurgling chain of coughs as she shot out her left hand, catching Kirika in the face to hinder Kirika's descend towards her neck. Her right hand thrashed somewhat desperately among a pile of the documents and other items that had crashed down from the table in their struggle, looking after anything that could serve as a weapon. The nightwalker paid it no heed, biting into the palm that Mireille pressed against her mouth. The warm, crimson liquid seeped into her mouth from the wound, breaking her last restraints and sending her senses into a fog of reddish haze by its sweet taste.

Mireille let out a pained and furious cry, exhausting the last mouthful of air she still had in her lungs and slammed her right hand into the girl's temple, holding on for the dear life, onto an object she clutched spasmodically in her fingers. Kirika managed to catch, in the haze of her bloodrage, a glimpse of cold silvery metal coming towards her head, hitting her with an impact that sent her ears ringing before the world around her suddenly twisted, screamed and collapsed.

The bloodlust drained out of her like sand from a pair of hands, her mind and sense snapping back into her like a whip, almost knocking her off her feet. Someone was screaming; a horrible, yet childish scream of dread and agony as she tried to connect what was happening. It took some moments before she realized that the hoarse screams of utter, desperate pain came from her own mouth.

White blinding light of dancing spots covered her vision as she felt how her limbs went slack, her muscles giving out completely as her body convulsed in spasms. Pulse after pulse of black, suffocating pain shook her whole body, shooting from her temple through every fibre and cell of her being. Somewhere in a distant horizon, a million light-years away, she felt how the blonde woman untangled herself from her crippled body, heaving heavily after the precious air that she needed so badly.

Her stomach churned, as she tried to stand up, her sense of balance completely lost in the abyss of pain that shackled through her very soul. She cried out again as she hit against the pool table behind her, clutching her functional arm around her midsection while she tried to suppress the agony. It didn't work. Another pulse seized through her and she coughed a hacking, dried out series of coughs that sounded like if it had come from a grave. She lurched forwards, hitting her forehead against the cold, wooden floor as the taste of sour, soiled blood rose in her throat. Before she knew it, she had thrown up at her feet, a bodily function she thought her immortal body was no longer capable of.

She fell, and landed on her side, unable to move as the slightest motion could stir another round of the hellish pain. Whimpering slightly as she drew a few slow, rasped breaths, Kirika tried to collect her mind again. Beads of sweat ran into her eyes and blurred her sight; it was as if she had lost all connection to her body as she lay there, breathing shallowly like an old man instead of the nightwalker she was. The room had gone silent; the only thing she could hear was her own, agonized breathing as she did her best to make out the rest of the room, fighting to regain what was left of her shaken thoughts.

The blonde woman, Mireille, was sitting against the wall, staring at her with horrified eyes as she clutched the gun in her hand, aiming it directly at Kirika's head. Her other hand was massaging the angry red bruise that had formed around her throat. In a strange way, Kirika was actually relieved that the woman was there, alive and not critically wounded or worse. She could not make out the woman's expression, but she doubted that it would be a pleasant one. A silvery, round object hung from her wrist, probably being the same item she had hit Kirika with in that last desperate attempt to break free. The object swayed back and forth like a pendant from the assassin's wrist. It was ticking, a steady, hollow sound that suddenly seemed to echo between the dark apartment's walls.

Kirika narrowed her eyes as her body slowly seemed to shut down, locking out each and one of her senses one at a time. Her sight cleared temporarily at the effort and she focused on the carefully crafted object in the other woman's hand. The unfamiliar image of two women, dressed in what looked like togas from ancient Greece were engraved on the silvery surface. Facing each other they kneeled in an almost painfully straight pose, both of them wielding swords, which they held forwards in salute, as if honouring each other's presence. Kirika shuddered. The room suddenly grew very, very cold, as if all the warmth in there suddenly avoided her while she eyed the swaying, ticking object.

A pocket watch.

Something warm and wet rolled down her cheek. Salty liquid leaked from her eyes in slow, agonized droplets; she wasn't sure of the reason, or the cause. It seemed ridiculous but she lay helpless to stop it as the room went grey. The blonde before her disappeared from her vision, together with the haunting image of the two women that seemed to have burned itself into her conscious mind.

The last thing Kirika would remember before succumbing to the pressing darkness was a sweet whisper of girlish laughter, a motherly voice that gently caressed her face, and somewhere in a distant land and time, two young women walking hand in hand, down a blackened road.

-----------------------------------------------------

And that brought Kirika back to her present, rather miserable position. The images of the fight with the blonde now rested as a thin layer of unpleasant memories against her dizzy mind. Her wounds had healed since long, the muscles and body tissues in her shattered shoulder and chest functioned as they were supposed to; besides the stubborn stiffness in her bones, everything seemed to be fine. She winced as she remembered the severe pain of having her shoulder blown out, a first time experience for in her ten years and one which she had no intentions of trying again.

Yesterday night's unpredicted events were finally sinking in. She had been defeated, beaten, outplayed, and by a mortal. A mere human, indeed a skilled killer but still a warm-blooded woman with no skills or powers that even surpassed a fresh born sapling. It was ridiculous, it was unbelievable but she could not deny the truth. Mireille Bouquet had, by luck but no doubt, successfully captured her.

Her game had failed.

If it hadn't been for the heavy pain that constantly threatened to break through her body, it would almost have been amusing, almost.

She lowered her head and looked down, the feeling of a thin chain cutting into the flesh of her neck like a dull knife. Her heart sank at the sight, having already sensed the cold weight of metal against her chest. The pocket watch. The silvery surface glowed in the kiss of the morning light, giving the engraved picture of the both women an almost soft image at first glance. Kirika shivered. She did not know why or how but she was fairly sure, judging by her observations, that the watch was the object guilty of what affected, and pained her. And Bouquet had obviously figured out the same thing, if she didn't previously already know about it.

A rustle of sheets from behind, followed by soft steps down the stairs.

"It's best if you don't move, if you don't want to repeat what happened yesterday." Kirika's eyes shot open. The voice came from her right, behind the wall she was sitting against. Sounds of pats of naked feet against the wooden floor, and she was there, in front of her.

Having followed the woman from a distance, Kirika had actually never experienced the full impact of being basked in the blonde woman's attention. Now she was, and for the umpteenth time, she had to draw a deep breath at the sight.

Dressed in simple blue jeans, the long, white nightshirt and her hair still a bit dishevelled from whatever sleep she might have been able to get. Mireille Bouquet loomed over the darkhaired girl, her features framed by the golden rays of the morning sun, with her gun in hand and staring down at the intruder of her house. Like an angel of death she cast her merciless gaze at Kirika's face, the face of a demon that had entered the forbidden paradise. And to the nightwalker's surprise, she was futile to break the eye contact. For another first time since her waking, _she_ was the one at another's mercy. The whole glory of the impressive visual was only ruined slightly by the pale blue bruise around her neck, a fresh testament of the violent events that had passed between the both of them the previous night.

Like two sapphires cut from the morning sky, Mireille's gaze locked her in place. Anger, curiosity and a slight hint of dread; the questions that was painted in them assaulted Kirika's mind with the impact of a tidal wave. The sheer flow of being so close to the woman's thoughts was overwhelming, and just for a little scaring. No one liked to be assaulted and almost strangled by a stranger to near death, and Mireille was no exception. The gun barrel she was pointing at Kirika's head was not only by the means of threat, the consideration of pulling the trigger was constantly present in her mind, and she found it tempting. While Kirika was not worried for her safety, being shot in the head was something she preferably avoided at all cost; she would have to be cooperative.

Having nothing whatsoever to respond to the blonde woman's statement, Kirika merely feigned and controlled her facial expression to one of indifference, mutely looking back at the assassin to let the woman lead the situation.

Understanding, after a few moments of silence, that her prisoner would not speak, Mireille gave her a slightly annoyed frown and sat down on the floor in front of her, way out of kicking range.

"So" Her eyes could have stared down a bear. "Who, and what are you?" She cocked the gun, releasing the safety with a switch of her thumb. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me."

And to her irritation, Kirika realized that the woman was right.

TBC (Kekeke, tied up Kirika, I'm so so so bad...=D)

----------------------------------------------------------

FFnet's formatting sure has gotten annoying…

Anyway, anything? Good? Bad? Horribly OOC? If you don't tell me, how am I gonna know?


	5. Making of Pacts

Well well, time for the fourth rumble. And YOWZAA, am I on a roll. After FINALLY finishing my Maria-sama Ga Miteru story and this chapter, I am beeeeeeaaaaaaaat. -falls down, dead-

I can see the light... Oo;

This chapter took some time due to a couple of make-ups I had to take during the end of my vacation. And YES, that is very much of an excuse. I'm not a professional writer, I am a engineer student. Schoolwork, how boring it may be, do take priority.

Anyway, let the funneh begin shall we? -

**

* * *

**

**Epitaph 4** – **Making of Pacts**

Mireille was good with patience. She had plenty of it and was good at distributing the pressing emotion between her moods. It was something her profession demanded of her, since no assassin survived long if they couldn't time and wait out the exact opportunity to put their hit in action, and from her experience, she knew it was something she excelled at. She couldn't recount all the times she had had to wait out her target through biting cold or blazing heat to plunge her fatal gift towards them in one, crucial moment where everything mattered.

She wondered where that patience had gone.

Eyeing the dark-haired girl – or at least what looked like a girl – before her in the angriest frown she could muster, she wondered how she had ever become an assassin with such short a fuse. Still, the blame couldn't entirely go to her. The strange girl-creature's vague answers and intense gaze was getting extremely on her nerves. She didn't believe for one second that she was stupid. No, she knew a dumb person when she saw one. The girl was simply listening to all her questions, and politely ignoring the most vital answers she wanted to get out of her.

"Ok, let's take it from the start, again." The blonde was surprised to hear how tired she sounded.

With the Asiatic girl's hands firmly tied up behind her back, and the mysterious pocket watch resting against her chest, Mireille could at least rule out a repeat of last night's events. The assassin had avoided suffering any serious wounds, but the strain it had put on her body did not go unnoticed. Her limbs and muscles were sore and her throat ached horribly.

She shuddered at the memories of the cold hand against her throat, pressing down against her windpipe with seemingly inhuman strength as she slowly, but surely lost control over her body and consciousness…

"So your name is Yuumura Kirika" She repeated the girl's own words, her voice somewhat hoarse due to the namesake's rude treatment towards her neck. "Where did you come from?" As previously, Mireille only received a blank look, as if the girl had not understood the question. Fighting the urge to punch her in the face, the blonde decided to try another approach, changing smoothly over to her rather fluent Japanese instead.

To her even greater irritation, the girl didn't even bother to raise an eyebrow in either surprise or recognition. She had hoped to stir a reaction out of the dark-haired child-creature by speaking its native language, but seemingly in vain.

"Yuumura is a Japanese name is it not?"

"Yes"

"Who sent you?" Mireille lowered her voice to a calm but obviously threatening tone as she tightened her grip around the gun. If the assassin would be honest however, she would rather not. Firing at a target only a meter away was usually messy business; and while she could handle messy on a job, she would rather not have it in her apartment. "I'd like the names please."

A look of discomfort passed over Kirika's face, and quickly vanished again. Usually, Mireille would have been surprised, if not horrified, at a teenage girl who didn't even flinch at a visible death threat. This was, however, not the case. She wasn't blind. She clearly remembered the grave damage the bullets had done to the girl's body the previous night. Two of her bullets had struck their target, one in the chest and the other literally blowing off the arm. Despite that, she hadn't found a scratch on Kirika's unconscious form. From all she could see, the girl was perfectly healthy again, with limbs and organs intact as if their fight had never happened in the first place.

This girl… thing… creature couldn't be human. The question seemed ridiculous, as if this was out of a storybook, but Mireille could not deny the naked truth. She was not hallucinating or dreaming; her instincts and memories had never let her down before, and she trusted her own judgement above all.

She had killed this girl. Mireille fought back a shiver that threatened to break her composure. She was not mistaken; it was _her_, the same girl who unfortunately had witnessed her assassination of Renoir, and the same girl who by all logic should be dead now from gunshot wounds. If the whole thing hadn't shaken the assassin to her very core, she would almost have thought it as funny. One of her old crimes had come back to haunt her, _literally_. The realization of maybe one of the oldest proverbs of her profession, sat in front of her, tied up and looking none too happy.

Mireille couldn't help but draw her lips into a small bemused smile. She was, however, quickly reminded of the situation at hand; while the literary metaphor was somewhat amusing, she certainly didn't want her victims coming back to life, especially if to find them looming over her in her sleep and being in possession of very feline looking fangs.

"Well?"

The girl frowned but slid back to her neutral face, still without uttering a word. A brief shadow of well-hidden pain flickered in her eyes when she adjusted her sitting position, so she bit her lip and stared back at the blonde, with the same unreadable and somewhat curious expression Mireille remembered from when she had killed her.

Time to speed things up a bit.

"The watch brings you pain, am I right?" The question was meant to be rhetorical, since she expected the conversation to be a monologue anyway. With a steady grip around the gun, she moved closer to the girl, until their eyes were levelled in a cold deadlock. The reddish-brown orbs remained as indifferent as before, but Mireille could tell that she was surprised. She picked up the silver watch in her palm, lifting it so the girl could see it clearly. "Do you know them?"

For the first time, the assassin caught a dumbfounded look on the pale face. Well finally, a reaction! While she knew it wasn't much, she couldn't help but cheer inwardly for the improvement. She didn't want to admit it, but the whole interrogation process was getting on her nerves. She was still tired from cleaning the apartment, had a sore throat and her floor still reminded her of Swiss cheese. She would have to call the carpenter tomorrow and was certainly not in the mood to question a monster girl.

But she wasn't stupid enough to not prioritise the issue of an immediate threat to her own life, first. Many people had tried to kill her before. Death was always a constant presence in her life, both others' and her own. Her world, however glamorous it may seem in wealth and elegance, followed the simple rule of eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. It was an old and well-known game, probably as old as humanity came and with stakes that could seem all too high. But she played it like she was taught, and she did it well. She was a winner, and she intended to continue winning.

Even if they sent her a monster.

"I received the pocket watch one week ago in a package by mail." She continued, never releasing the girl's gaze. "It has my family crest on the inside." A swift switch of her thumb and the watch opened, the girl hissed at the motion, narrowing her eyes like if something had suddenly stung her. Mireille shot her an apologizing look.

A quiet melody, soothing like a lullaby, started to play from the watch's silvery body. It's still, metallic sound was almost deafening in the temporary silence as they stared at each other.

The girl was the first to break the eye contact.

Under other circumstances, Mireille would have thought the girl pretty. Smooth, pale skin and a slightly round face, sleek cheekbones and large, almond shaped eyes. Her face was young, or seemed so at least, preserving the very best of the sweet girly traits in the delicate features that verged on womanhood. Her ancestry was with little doubt a good one, her body and features clearly groomed from generations of noble Asian bloodlines.

She would indeed have been pleasant to look at, if not for the knowledge that she had died once, and possessed fighting abilities unmatched by even the most skilful syndicate thugs.

The moment passed as the melody seemed to grow in the uncomfortable air, its calm, yet ominous tune echoing in their ears.

"As much as I wish that someone just picked it up and decided to send it to me out of charity, don't you think that it's a funny coincidence?" She had the girl's attention now. "Someone decides to send me one of my family's long lost possessions, just one week before it obviously saves my life. I don't know how, but if I hadn't placed it among the papers on the pool table, I would obviously not be standing here speaking now. Am I right?" To her surprise, the girl nodded.

"So who sent it? I'm asking you, since whoever that sent it seemed to know that you were coming."

Mireille detected surprise as her words were digested; she – Kirika – had obviously not considered this. As much as the assassin hoped that it really was a coincidence, she was not about to take any chances. She was grateful to be alive, yet disliked being at the mercy of someone invisible. The girl's already detached expression grew even more distant; she pressed her lips together, her mouth thinning out to a horizontal line as Mireille saw the motions of a clever and calculating mind at work.

"I am not related." She said, after awhile.

Wow, first complete sentence since the barely audible mutter that had been her name. To the blonde's surprise, Kirika's voice was small, steady and with a passive confidence. It reminded her of a bird, and not the cracked cackle of a monster which she had anticipated. But then, their conversation had been limited to a few screams and grunts yesterday, not exactly something you could base a solid impression on. The dark-haired girl sounded very much like what she looked like: a teenager and nothing else. Mireille however, was not pleased.

"Then why were you here?" She curled her lips slightly upwards, for a short moment remembering the girl's penetrating gaze above her in the dark. "The view?" Dark, almost black eyebrows, fine like the tip of a straw of grass shot upwards, giving her stern expression a somewhat comical look.

"Yes."

Mireille laughed, and started to cough. So she _was_ taunting her.

"Cute, but I'm losing my patience."

"I'm telling the truth." Second complete sentence, she couldn't believe the progress they were making.

"That you were enjoying the view?" She asked, with ill-hidden amusement.

"That I am not related." There was certainly no humour in the tone. Kirika looked up at her with something that resembled puzzlement. She had apparently not caught the joke. There was an underlying directness, a cold, unfaultable honesty in the soft, yet imposing voice that Mireille could not ignore. Settling back into a more serious tone, the blonde decided to change her approach.

"Do you think it was a coincidence?" It was the same directness aback, her face promising no more games.

They stared at the other for a long time, while the silence around them sighed. Eyes bore into each other, blue battling brown, seeking and reading what little trust they could find.

Finally, Kirika spoke.

"No."

* * *

Kirika sat, not entirely comfortable, by the apartment window on one of the rather beat-up chairs as she gazed upwards at the cerulean sky, massaging her wrists. The rope had dented into her skin, cutting small circles just above her hands. Mireille had given her disinfectant and bandages to treat it, not knowing that those medical supplies were no help whatsoever. Or maybe she did know, but offered them out of courtesy. 

She gave the blonde a quick glance from the corner of her eye, not wanting to be caught staring at the assassin. Instead, she chose to localize the woman with her ears, which also seemed to be the only one of her senses that had not been dulled in the presence of the watch. She listened, and marked the blonde's position with every step and breath she took, carefully following her movements around the small apartment as she cleaned it.

C-clink. Crash. Broken dishes into the dustbin. Five steps to the right. Kh-ack, dunk. The table was in its place again. And she went on, sweeping the floor as well as repairing some of the furniture, never stopping to give her intruder another glance as she moved on about as usual in her home.

Kirika however, was not so easily convinced. It was a well-covered act.

The blonde may have released her but trust was something entirely different. The tension in the room was almost electrifying; both women were agile and aware of each other's movements like one would move when near a wild animal. Mireille still wore her gun neatly tucked in a belt around her waist and Kirika was sure of that the assassin could draw, aim and shoot, with perfect result in her direction in a matter of seconds. She, herself on the other hand, was still more or less handicapped with the hateful watch around her neck. Pain still shot down her limbs at even the smallest movement, even if it seemed to dull off with the passing time.

The inability to move around, or use her senses would have drove her into rage if the circumstances had been different, maybe if it had been someone else that wasn't Mireille Bouquet, or maybe if this had been somewhere else that wasn't Bouquet's apartment.

_"You're not human."_

_Nod._

_"Then those… teeth… were real?"_

_Nod._

_"You're a vampire, like in those horror movies?" _

_A flash of amused disbelief crossed the blonde's grim looking face. _

_Another flash of real disbelief followed almost instantly as she shot her a look. _

_Silence.___

_And a nod, again._

Mireille had stopped cleaning and started to inspect the damage the gunfire had done to her floor. Stepping carefully around the ripped wood and splinters, she went down on her knees, removing sticks and shards that lay around, while muttering under her breath. Kirika made out one or two curses as she watched the progress. The woman paid her no attention at all, as if it was natural for her to be there, as if she was a part of her home.

This unnerved the nightwalker a bit. Not to mention that she was open in plain sight of one of her chosen victims, but also actually sitting in her apartment, and being ignored. The whole thing was so surreal and ridiculous that if her kind had anything that resembled human pride, she would have been ashamed.

This brought her to the reason she had been released at all in the first place. When she had woken up with the armed assassin looming above her, tied up and with no powers to help, she had easily predicted that she would have an agonizing healing process in front of her, probably including a part where she would be waking up in the sewers, or some other popular place where you usually dumped whatever you hadn't wished for.

But their conversation had taken another quite unexpected turn after her honest confession about her innocence concerning the watch. Mireille had, not surprisingly, good skills at reading other people's truthfulness. She had believed her, which between guns relieved Kirika somewhat.

_"So if no one sent you, then why me?"_

_The day was drawing near to lunch now, and it had become quite warm in the apartment. A fly was hitting itself against the window, creating a repeated clattering sound when the body slammed against the glass. Its struggle failed to distract the nightwalker though, like she wished, rather than being penetrated under her guardian's gaze_

_"Why not?__ It is of no difference."_

_Silence.___

_"You were going to eat me, or whatever you do."_

_Nod. She had to be impressed by how calm Mireille was taking all this, as if threats of cannibalism were a daily occurrence to her._

_"So you being here, was a coincidence. Then the watch makes no sense."_

_Her gaze dropped, now aimed at Kirika's chest, where the speak-sake rested._

_"I can believe in you being a coincidence, I can assume the watch being fate, I can't however take lightly on you both appearing at the same time."_

_The girl had to admit that she had a point._

_The blonde rose from the floor, finally putting away the gun. She turned halfway while still keeping her eyes on Kirika. A small, almost non-existent smile touched her lips, like a challenger to her opponent._

_She was on her mind._

_Kirika concentrated, but could only catch a few fragments of herself in the other woman's mind. There was suspicion, curiosity and the not unexpected, fear. The feeling of being so closely scrutinized made her squirm; as it was not and never had been her way to be subjected to a live one's attention. But then, neither had anything in her recent few hours been even close to what she usually recognized as normal._

_The assassin moved from her hunched form to the window, turning her unprotected but not unguarded, back towards Kirika. She could hear how Mireille moved her lips, wisps of air leaving her mouth as if she was tasting her thoughts before wording them. _

_They stayed like that, woman and girl, for the longest time. Unsurprisingly, it was the blonde who yet again broke the silence._

_"Let's make a pact."_

Another sigh was heard when Mireille finished what she could do on the floor, and realized how futile it was. Kirika averted her eyes quickly as she rose, and she felt the blue eyes on her. She had no doubt that the blonde knew all along that she had been watched, but despite the ridiculousness of it, she feigned innocence, concentrating her gaze on the street below.

The blonde obviously didn't intend to insist on it as she heard a quick staccato of footsteps and the bathroom door closing. This offered little difference for Kirika since her hearing was just that good. It did however defuse the tension a bit, at least on Mireille's part.

Being almost helpless at someone else's mercy was definitely not her thing, and Kirika had to admit that having her wear the watch was a clever move. If not for the painful heaviness of her limbs, she honestly doubted she would have let the blonde just walk away after all this.

_"Pact?"___

_"Yes, or a promise. Are you familiar with the concept?" _

_"I am." She said, with maybe more intensity than she intended to, being somewhat offended. She waited._

_"I want to know if it was a coincidence or not. And I'd like some help." Kirika raised her head, staring at the blonde's back. Did she realize what she was asking? Probably not. "Do you kill your own kind?"_

_So that was why._

_"I can't rule out that possibility, with you being here." She filled in, taking her silence for hesitation. "If we succeed, we may find out if it was intended for you or not. I believe it's in your interest." _

_Which was completely ridiculous since her kind never operated in groups, and mostly didn't bother each other. At least she didn't. _

_But then, that was taking a chance. Or was she making excuses? _

_"Well?" There was an edge in Mireille's voice._

_Silence.___

_The whole thing was beyond idiocy._

_Breath.___

_Was unheard of.___

_Silence.___

_But the watch did exist, its weight gleaming cold against her clothes._

_Blue eyes penetrating her._

_Another breath.___

_And she nodded._

A child ran down the street, plastic heels clattering against the stone pavement. Kirika's head was still swirling after replaying the alien conversation that had happened before, to the degree where she only subconsciously noticed the sounds of Mireille leaving the bathroom.

When she finally remembered to turn around, Mireille was already standing an arm's length from her. Surprised at being caught off-guard, but face still indifferent, she returned the woman's gaze. The blonde seemed to hesitate only for a second.

She brought up her left hand, making a rather casual gesture towards her kitchen.

"Do you drink tea?"

tbc...

* * *

If you guys haven't noticed, I have no intention of stressing their relationship through the story. One of the main aspects that made the original anime so special was how Beetrain managed to steadily develope the interaction between our two female leads from cold professionalism to the relationship that marks the pair who shares the title of 'Noir'. I intend to do my best to honor this standard. 

I am sorry to say that everyone who wants and expects HABF (Hot-Anime-Babes-F---ing) by the next chapter will be sadly disappointed.

And with that, I'm going into resting-mode. A new semester just started.

Read and review! If you don't tell me, how will I know?


	6. The Watchman

I'm late. I know. Don't kill. I'm writing this remember?

Anyway, as the good Leet911 put it, we're starting to get some meat on the bones now. Let's get the real story rolling.

Care to find out?

* * *

**Epitaph 5 – The Watchman**

_Unreal._

There was simply no other word that was fitting, or could describe her situation better. Mireille fought back the small urge to twirl her long, golden hair around her index finger, a small habit of discomfort she had picked up during her sweet, but short childhood on the Corsican island. A habit that had been drilled out by her stepmother's gentle, yet strict hands later when she had arrived in France, led by kin, or a friend to her real parents.

She could clearly recall the woman's face, her tired, but strong profile that had really been nothing like Mireille's own. Rich brown hair, sharply shortened at her shoulders framing a face that carried the wrinkles of grief, eroded to softness by time like her no doubt once vibrant spirit. She harboured no love for the woman. Not out of spite or maltreatment but simply because it didn't fit with the image she had formed during the years in the house.

It had been a few brief years, years that had consisted more of schooling and training than play and joy. Still, with no clear memories of her biological parents or whereas their fates had been, the years spent on the French countryside were a few of the peaceful and memorable ones in her life. Her 'Mama' had not been a kind woman, neither was she mean or bad in any other way Mireille could have named at that age. She was a teacher, an instructor; she had fed, clothed and schooled her. That had been her duty and purpose and there were simply no more or less to it. There had been very little love, but certainly no displeasure at the young Mireille's presence.

When she had arrived at the small house, with its apple trees and vineyard, well overgrown by blooming cling-plants and cats, she had been lost. No matter how hard she tried, she could simply not remember how or why she had gotten there. The memories had become blurred and paled with time, the smells and impressions no longer as vivid as once; still, she knew there had been a hand, a steady, warm grip around her own smaller one. There had been no pain, or indication to that she was unwished for, hurt or anything unpleasant. There was only the iron grip, of determination and natural strength, as she was led towards her new home, where she would come to spend most of her early childhood.

Mireille, despite her present occupation, could still recall how she had been then; something of a lost kitten, far too inexperienced and young, stumbling around on her unsteady feet. Making mistakes became something of a daily routine where Mama would reprimand her, often with a stiff remark, followed with a gentler nod when she corrected herself. In her memories, the woman had with endless patience taught and bore with her, taking in the curious, but fragile child she had been into her home without a word of protest.

But still, with little or no love at all.

Until a blonde, kind-looking man, who introduced himself as her uncle – her real maternal relative – had one day showed up at the heavy wooden door, and yet again led her away by hand, to never return to the house which she forever would relate to as her first home.

Now, with a feeling of déjà vu, she found herself going through the same ordeal that probably had been her stepmother's feat so many years ago. Watching her new found 'roommate', she could only stare, if not laugh at how the girl before her was trying to dry off the dishes. She chose to hide her amusement however, while she did not know much about vampires, she preferred not to do anything that could provoke one.

With the wash cloth in one hand, the Asian girl handled her cheap, bazaarpurchased plates like if they were the finest china, drying each and one of them off carefully inch by inch before putting them down beside the sink. While the concept of having a monster in her home, or even one drying her dishes for her, would have seemed as alien as a Mars invasion a few weeks ago. The blonde had to acknowledge that both of them as promised, had settled into a routine where the vampire girl helped her on various tasks throughout the days while she was trying to track any trails relating to the pocket watch.

But first, the routine of everyday life had to be learned, which had been a completely foreign thing to Kirika. It was to the blonde's amusement, but also distress over the number of broken things.

While Mireille was pouring every notch of her contact net into tracking down every skilled craftsman in Paris that could name or know about the mysterious watch that had saved her from certain doom. Kirika, as the blonde now called her by name, spent most of her time in the apartment on things far too trivial for what one would expect from a vampire, sitting by the window for hours at end. It had taken a few days before the blonde realized, with a flicker of guilt, why.

She had returned from a meeting with one of her informants one evening to find the girl lying across her floor, her hands more or less clutched into claws as she had let out one series after another of dreadful coughs. Her usual pale face almost reduced to bloodless as she had been soaked through with sweat, shivering and shaking as if she had been laid out to die in a snowstorm rather than a warm autumn afternoon in France. Her breaths had been a rasping sound like sand hammering against metal, the deep, reddish brown eyes thinned into slits, flicking back and forth in something that could only be unbearable pain. It didn't take much time for the blondeto figure out what the cause was.

She had tried to remove the watch.

While being grateful for having the solid protection against Kirika, she could do nothing but feel guilty about the horrors it caused her. It was certainly not pleasant to watch, but it was her only insurance, a feeling which they both loathed but understood.

Kirika's expression had been as neutral as ever while Mireille had helped her up and more or less made her more presentable than the pitiful state she had been found in. The blonde could not help but feel the boding of dread run down her spine as the reddish gaze had landed on her, and she was sure, that had the watch been gone that instant, she would have been the one lying on the floor, with an outcome far more deadly than the vampire's.

But still, despite all the likeness of a child learning the world, despite mistakes that sometimes threatened to become cute, she could not – and would not – deny what went, ate and slept in her once impenetrable sanctuary.

Kirika's nature and usefulness were to be respected, if she wanted to see this through with her life intact. The ally she had sought was an indeed a powerful one, but it was power borrowed and not to be taken for granted. The dark-haired girl's original mission in being in her home was not to be forgotten.

Making a pact with her was taking a risk so big that normally, Mireille wouldn't have given it a thought, much less a promise. A promise, and a verbal one of all things, between a killer and a monster. No fool, or even the most low-headed syndicate goon would probably have honoured it, but she had to. The deal had more or less been set at the same time as Kirika had entered her home, or when she had fired the first bullet.

The other possible scenario would be letting the girl go, removing the watch and merely _hoping_ that the vampire wouldn't attempt another nightly visit, which was as reassuring as anything close to her profession. Of course, there had been a point in allying with the girl, with her existence sitting by her window as the proof, she couldn't deny the possibility that there were more of them. And seeing how the girl had fought, her company would be more than an unnerving comfort, but a lifeguard if the situation should arise.

The puzzle of the pocket watch had been no lie, and she buried herself in the starting phase of the task with her usual fervour regarding work. Even if the end of the matter was much lesser, or nothing but a real coincidence played by fate, she would at least have had time to observe the girl, who may potentially be the most dangerous foe she had ever made.

If Kirika turned against her, she would have the watch, and its mysterious power over the girl. If she did not, and remained until the end of their promise, she would hopefully have gained valuable information on how to fight, and maybe kill her.

It was a risky game. The bets on her side were far too high for her usual taste, but really, she didn't have a choice. Whatever she had started, she would have to finish.

CRASH

…given that they would ever be finished with the dishes of course.

Mireille discarded the shards of another plate into her dustbin as the dark-haired girl beside her watched with a face that was more curious than guilty. Honestly, the blonde couldn't really see what was so fascinating at all since this was, since the first day, the sixth plate that had suffered at the vampire's hand. She sometimes wondered what it was that brewed behind those expressionless eyes when they looked at her, but then, what use was there guessing?

With a small sigh, she stood up and returned to her computer, avoiding the uneasy eye contact with a shrug of her mind, going back to her detective work as she had been every evening for this week. Kirika did not linger for long in the kitchen as she made her way towards her now traditional place beside the window, her pace and motion still showing light signs of subtle restraints. From what the blonde understood, sudden movements like running or even a twist of arm could be painful for the dark-haired girl, not to mention actually touching the silvery metal through physical contact. That was all she had gained from observation. The two of them rarely talked, and when they did it was all in clipped remarks or one-word replies that were as telling as a monologue.

She did not know how the watch worked, why it worked or even had a clue about why her family crest was engraved on it. Bouquet's signet, the lynx, which once had ruled Corsica, was boldly engraved on the inside of the lid; it's sharp, feline profile staring back at its last successor with accusing eyes.

Having been brought up by stepparents, and handed over to a real relative at the brittle age of ten made the young assassin feel little pride and devotion however. To her, the insignia of the wildcat was only what it appeared to be, a dead relic of her lost family. She could feel no surge of anger, or call for vendetta upon its sight. Some would have called her a failure as a Corsican, a surviving princess of a once proud clan, bearing no vengeance or wish for retribution whatsoever.

The loss of her parents had come early, she could be sure of that much. Sometimes, at the shift between morning and dawn, at the verge between dreams and wakefulness, sometimes, she could _almost_ remember something. A fragrance of lilacs and olives, the brush of a rueful smile against her sleeping face, her own laughter, and a salty breeze; those were all she could recall, all there was left to relate to her parents.

She had no memory of the existence of such a watch within her family, but then, for someone who could not even remember their faces, it came as no surprise. But despite being orphaned for reasons both unknown and untold, Mireille knew her family's history by heart, or at least the parts that her uncle Claude had taught her. The Bouquet's aristocratic history that stretched back several hundred years made a fancy piece of craftwork like the watch hardly unexpected.

As a young child, she had naturally wondered, asked and sometimes literally pined after answers to all those questions that circulated her childhood. The questions were always brushed off, left hanging or openly ignored, her stepmother had not been keen on receiving them, something the young Mireille learned quickly after moving in with the woman. The blonde could not blame her, and she seriously doubted that the woman could have known at all.

Being delivered into her Uncle Claude's hands had been something of a relief. Claude was not as strict with her when it came to everyday life, and had even taken her out to parks and festivities on occasions. The sudden move from the countryside to Paris had been a shock to her, but it paled in comparison to the shock in having a gun thrust into her hands for the first time.

She had been twelve, and Claude, her kind uncle, taught her to play-shoot at targets. But in all his honest joy about his precious niece, the man never did speak about his sister. He would ruffle her hair, praise her accomplishments and spoil her, but all her desperate questions about her family would fall on deaf ears.

It was not his place. So he had said, but Mireille could still not until this day, years after his death, understand why. Her only uncle, her only living relative, had gone to his early grave, forever taking the answers to her life with him. Claude had been an honourable man, a true Corsican, and trained her well to be the best in the only profession that was known to him. Mireille owed him her life many and many times over, having the mark of his rigorous training forever sweated, pounded and etched into her body.

The assassin let a small rueful smile light up her face at her own musing. Maybe she did have ulteriormotives with the whole thing as well, just as she suspected her counterpart had. For the first time in many years, maybe – and just maybe –something that could be related to her family had turned up. Sent by an unknown factor, and carrying an unwished for package, but still all better than nothing. She gave the girl by her window a quick peek before returning to her mail, not wanting to be caught.

A small beep from her monitor broke her chain of thoughts. After giving the mail's content a quick scan; she had to raise her eyebrows in pleased surprise.

"Kirika?"

It took a few seconds for Kirika to react at the call, still not accustomed to actually hearing the syllables that formed her name be verbally spoken. She turnedtowards the only other occupant in the room slowly, as if having been in deep thoughts when interrupted. The blonde, Mireille, was yet again seated behind her computer and searching among her informants regarding the despicable silver watch that hung around her neck.

The nightwalker had more or less decided to give up the whole issue of information gathering to the other woman. Not that she'd have been of much help. She doubted the assassin would remove the watch to let her roam on her own, and to be honest, Kirika had a feeling that Mireille's underworld network surpassed her own knowledge tremendously. Still, while not showing it, the inactivity irked her.

With a still, cautious expression adorning her face, Mireille gestured her towards the pool table, finally having found something that was of value.

It was a casual gesture, one which had thrown her completely off balance at the beginning. The woman always treated her in such a distant yet remarkable _human_ manner, it was - for lack of a better word - weird. A way of interaction that had been her entirely unfamiliar, and while Mireille was not exactly warm towards her, it was certainly not what Kirika had expected.

But then again, it was far better than having the assassin a scared wreck on the constant edge of break-down while being near her.

To her surprise, a small smile was tugging at the other woman's lips. It was the first time, during those days where Kirika more or less had been her prisoner that the woman showed a positive expression.

"We have a lead, look at this." She said, while Kirika rounded the pool table and stood beside her. The monitor showed the blurred photo of a quite stern, elderly looking man, with a shock of white hair and a face so lined with age that he reminded Kirika of a withered old tree. Still, despite the sad quality of the photo, there was no mistaking that he bore his stature with pride, like it showed in his features. The long face, with a somewhat pointy nose that once might have been handsome stared out at them hungrily from the monitor.

Mireille browsed her way through a few menus as her printer came to life in a series of beeping noises, ensuring themselves a copy of the photo and the letter that followed it.

"André Schumann, originally from Switzerland. Moved to Paris after the war together with his family business." She scrolled down, pointing out the information. "Apparently, the Schumann family were a renowned name in excellent craftsmanship when it came to watches and clocks."

"Were?"

"Yes, he seems to have done some shady business during the wars, forcing their family to flee. They didn't do all too well in Paris it seems, the information says that they became involved in the underworld at some point." The blonde's brows tightened a little, pondering something for a few seconds before continuing. "I wonder what happened. Switzerland has alwaysbeen neutral ground, even in times of war."

Kirika read on, her expression indifferent. "The source?"

"Reliable. I passed a few photos of the watch around, it seems like it was Schumann who took the bait himself."

The dark-haired girl didn't respond. It wasn't a very solid lead, but as for now, it was all they had.

"The photo is old." She pointed out.

"I guess, like he himself probably is now as well." The assassin shrugged. "It could be a dead end, but for now, it's all we have." Mireille shot the girl beside her a questioning look, and Kirika merely nodded.

"Today?"

"Yes."

And there was nothing else to be said.

-

Paris in the evening was nice. Kirika had to admit that much as she and Mireille made their way through the streets. People were milling around them in their daily business, buying groceries or hurrying home after finishing another day of tiring work. She felt strangely uncomfortable in the bustle however, not because she was among humans or was being seen but because of the taller woman that was walking beside her.

The blonde had been oddly quiet ever since they left the apartment. With the address and photo of Schumann neatly tucked into her breast pocket, Mireille had ignored her presence after she had caught up with her steps. It was frustrating that she was unable to even walk as fast as she would have liked to, but she was at least grateful that the pain had subsided somewhat with the days.

Kirika tucked her hands into her parka's pockets, squirming a little to adjust the green, sleeveless pullover Mireille had bought her. The soft cotton grinded the now familiar metal object around her neck against the yellow t-shirt she wore inside.

She was out. For the first time in a long while, all due to the silver watch for which she wished nothing more than to tear off.

Another odd thing struck her.

She was not thirsty.

How long had it been? Not too long, but long enough. She should feel the pull, the need. Her body should be stirring, reminding her of the needs it craved. Yet it didn't and that was worrisome. While she doubted that it yet would be of danger to her, it was of great concern. Her powers - however useless they were at the moment – had their source from what she drew and fed from the blood, like her very life. Theoretically speaking, it really was a thirst like humans thirsted after water. A mechanism of her immortal body that served as a reminder, pulling her to attend its needs like a hungry man craving for food. If it didn't work, the outcome was rather obvious. Subconsciously, Kirika reached up to her torso.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you." The words came like a rap from a whip. She stopped her hands immediately. The blonde woman didn't look at her, but continued herspeeding down the road.

Kirika lowered her arms. So she _was_ being watched.

"We don't want to make a scene."

Of course.

The streets turned narrower and narrower as they made their way between the houses. Kirika noticed that they had entered the part of Paris that was the oldest, but not the most prestigious. Most of the houses consisted of a darker shade of wood with layers and layers of paint trying to cover up its decaying surface. Both the lower floors of the buildings and the streets were made of stone, all looking equally battered bythe passing of age. Contrary to the slum however, it was all still fairly clean. The residents had made a serious attempt to make their homes more appealing by planting a few pots of flowers here and there. Only a minimum of trash could be seen, and the air smelled like wet mud, and spicy oil.

A girl Kirika's age walked past them, forcing them to press themselves against the walls to be able to let her pass. Mireille gave her a kind, reassuring smile when she stared at the blonde's classy clothes with uncertain eyes, fiddling with her own worn out coat while she brushed a few red-dyed bangs from her freckly face. She mumbled a hasty apology and ran past, disappearing among the myriad of passages.

"We're here." Mireille stopped in front of a dark, wooden door with metal reinforcements that looked like it was going to fall over at any time. She looked over at Kirika who just looked at it indifferently.

"Someone is waiting for us."

"What?" Mireille said, rather surprised. Kirika turned to face the blonde, putting an emphasis on her words with her equally rapt gaze.

"Someone is coming. They know we are here."

"How many?" Her voice was steady, but rather quiet as she mouthed the question. The assassin's hand went slowly into her purse as she spoke, gripping her gun.

Kirika narrowed her eyes in a small frown of concentration, straining her ears to the outmost.

"One."

"You sure?"

"Yes. The footsteps are light, it is either a small person or he is walking very quietly."

Mireille stared at her in amazement. Kirika could almost feel the blonde's mind brimming over with ideas and possibilities with such a skill at hand. The question on the tip of the woman's tongue was left unvoiced however, as the door in front of them indeed rattled, and was swung open. Surprisingly, the heavy wood didn't creaklike one would have expected. It moved with the foreboding silence of a coffin. A - as Kirika had foreseen - small man with short, well-trimmed brown hair and good-natured face greeted them. He gave the both of them a small bow, carefully scrutinizing them with eyes sparkling of boyish curiosity, and gestured them to step inside.

The room they arrived in was in better shape and spoke of good and skilful maintenance compared to the outside. As expected from something that was probably built in the same age as the Bastille, the roof was low on the first floor. While being merely pressing to someone of Kirika's height, Mireille had to bow down a little to not hit her head. The rest of the room was mostly empty, serving as a kind of lobby with only a few chairs and a dried out painting to add to its decor.

Despite the room being was empty, Kirika noticed that Mireille had never takenher hand from the purse. The woman was not one for surprises.

"We are here to meet Monsieur Schumann, he should have been informed beforehand."

"Ah, of course." The man nodded, and gave them a rather apologetic face. "I'm sorry to say that my father is resting at the moment, would it be sufficient for both mademoisellesto wait a while? I would prefer to let him sleep another half an hour before waking him."

Kirika looked at Mireille who didn't return the favour.

"We'll wait."

The assassin's tone softened when the man gave them a genuine grateful look. Kirika got the feeling that the small man wasn't used to having his requests granted.

"Is there anything I could help you with while waiting? I'm afraid to say that I've taken over most of our family business since my father's age became burdensome for him." He said, while gesturing them to sit down on the rangy chairs.

"I'm sorry to hear that, we were not informed monsieur...?"

"Alexji." He drew out the vowels while pronouncing it.

"That's an unusual name for a Swiss." Alexji laughed.

"My mother did the naming after my grandfather when they fled from the east, so yes, unusual indeed. But if you don't mind…"

"Of course."

"So, what could two beautiful mademoiselles from the upper city want with my father?"

Mireille hesitated. The thoughts of the woman pressed into Kirika's mind unbidden as they sat beside each other. The woman wasn't sure if she wanted to trust any information with Schumann's son, and they still didn't know who it was that had taken the bait. Had it really been Andre Schumann himself, if he indeed was that old? Kirika reached out towards the man's thoughts but all she managed was creating a dull ringing sound inside her eardrums.

"We've heard that you father is a skilled craftsman and had expertise in the field."

"He indeed is, if he still had the sight for it." The words had an underlying sigh in it, giving him the light of being the perfect proper and worrying son. "I have to admit that I'm not even breaching his skill at my age."

"We're here to ask him to look at something for us."

"And I'm sure he will gladly do so. But you surely realize that it will cost?" The same pleasant smile, but now with a certain smirk behind it. "As refined as you couple of ladies look, I'm sure you know by your presence here what kind of shop we are running."

"High-class imitations and copies of valuables, like the import and export of those am I right?"

Alexji barked out a short laughter. "To put it politely yes, even if we mostly handle the export. You're well-informed miss...?"

"Miss will do MonsieurAlexji." The blonde's tone was still kind, but now with a certain razor behind it. "Actually, it was your father who gave us the offer, or we may have never found our way here." The man raised his eyebrows at this, making a face of surprise.

"H-he did?" Alexji almost gaped. "When..? How did he...?" His earlier composure fell as he stuttered in something between disbelief and joy. Kirika shot Mireille a quick peek, not sure of what to make out of the man's unexpected behaviour.

The nightwalker fought the urge to twist her face into a confused frown, somewhat realizing her own limitations when it came down to human communication. While her kind possessed all the aspects that were needed to be a pretended social butterfly, it had never really been her ace. Humans had never really concerned her before she ran into Mireille, who was something entirely more than a mere distraction.

"I-I'm sorry, but my father pulled out from his work entirely at his retirement. This is the first time..." His face cracked up in a broad and honest smile as he talked. "Shall we go and wake him then?"

They passed a long hallway until arriving before a set of wooden stairs that looked as if they could collapse at any second. Kirika noticed curiously that, despite being a producer and bootlegger of illegal art copies, the house was surprisingly undecorated in its interior. There was not a single painting or piece of art that even reminded of something esthetical. The green-painted stone walls all remained cold and empty on their way upwards until Alexji stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and asked them to wait outside while he would notify the older Schumann.

Mireille shot her a quick, stern glance. The blonde must mean that she didn't want a scene from her under any circumstances. Of course, after finding Kirika lifeless after her latest attempt with the watch, the worry was justified. The girl also noticed that the assassin had since their arrival perfectly steered the conversation with Alexji to not involve her under any circumstances. Quite impressive. She could have been invisible for all she knew, all of the man's concentration had with a few words and a smile been focused on Mireille.

Alexji turned up at the door, waving them inside with a polite sweep. The blonde didn't give her another look as she stepped through the doorframe, with Kirika a few steps behind. The room they arrived in was dimly lit, antique in its furnishing and seemed to be entirely crammed with bookcases which in their place were crammed to the fullest with a library's worth of books. Despite that it was still before noon, few of the light-rays actually seemed to make their way through the two indeed small, but wide-open windows. The stale air which smelled of old paper and still damp ink assaulted her nose. The only thing that was somewhat modern seemed to be the large armchair that occupied what little place was left by the bookcases.

In the middle of it all sat a very old, weary looking man, dressed in dark-coloured formal attire consisting of an older kind of suit. His, what may have once been brown-coloured hair was tied back into a small but well-groomed ponytail. His hair, eyebrows and moustache had all likewise been drained of colour, leaving only a few strands here and there for the keen eye. He had the same long, wrinkled face as the man from the photo, if possible, now with even more wrinkles that showed the burden of his age.

The old man, whom Kirika assumed was Andre Schumann, seemed to be sleeping when they stepped in and did not even bother to raise his head to greet them. But the overly even breath that rasped from his throat told her something else. With a thick pair of glasses weighing down his face, he looked like the classical scholar.

"Alexji." The voice was creaked, dried, but careful, having lost none of its intelligent edge. "Have you sent Danielle away? I don't want her here when there's business."

"Yeah, I called her mother."

"Good. Now," Opening his eyes very slowly, as if a great weight was holding it down, he turned towards them. "I will not ask for your names. I've been here for too long to not see the stupidity of some etiquette. But I will-" He drew another raspy breath, before continuing. "however ask you to come closer, my sight is not what it once was and I prefer to see faces."

"Monsieur Schumann, we are much obliged and grateful for you having us." Mireille said.

The old man did not answer as they stepped over various piles of books and papers before stopping in front of his chair. Kirika stood slightly behind Mireille, calm but utterly at loss of what to do. Andre looked them over from head to toe, one at a time, something that made Kirika quite uncomfortable.

He stopped at Mireille and narrowed his eyes, concentrating on her face.

"You're the owner of the watch." It wasn't a question.

"I am." Mireille replied with some surprise. "How did you know?"

He chuckled. "Child, a maker should always know the owner in this field of work." He paused, and eyed Kirika with a long, piercing stare. "But I'm sorry to say that I'm not its maker, I merely had the chance to repair it once. It's quite a piece of art and I could be no older than my son right now when I last held it." Another pause. "May I see it?" Somehow, the nightwalker got the feeling of that Andre was not as blind as he wanted people to believe.

The blonde nodded and turned to Kirika who almost took a step backwards in surprise when the blonde reached around her neck to lift out the chain. Mireille brushed aside her hair carefully, pulling up the watch with minimum of movement and placed the silver object atop of the girl's pullover in front of her chest. The dark haired girl cringed when the metal moved, slithering against her skin as she leaned forwards so Schumann could see.

She was not amused by this, but really had little choice. Alexji was looking at her in a funny way, no doubt wondering why she wasn't taking it off but being too polite to mention anything. Mireille on the other hand was standing beside her with the same seemingly ingrown expression. The formal but pleasant smile on her porcelain face was strained nonetheless, and her anxiety became almost physical for Kirika who was standing so close. One wrong tug from Schumann spelled disaster.

Hard-edged pieces of charcoal pierced through her when she faced front again. Schumann was no longer watching the watch, but straight into her eyes with a gaze so intense it could have made a stone quiver. Kirika answered the gaze likewise, she had seen it before, humans who thought themselves to be of wisdom and knowledge, and who ensured others of their knowledge through their age.

…but never from less than two feet distance. They were so close in fact, that she could smell the sour remains of caffeine and sugar that lingered in the old man's breath, which she didn't enjoy at all.

The two of them held the gaze for the longest time, until Andre broke the silence with something like disbelief, and amusement shining in his eyes.

"Alexji, I need you to run an errand for me."

The younger man stared at him, baffled. But his father interrupted him before he could question it.

"Monsieur Rochere has a book by Hegel I need right now. Go and get it for me. I don't recall the name but tell him that and he will know which one I want."

"But fathe…"

"Did you not hear me incompetent boy? I said I need it, now go!" He barked. Alexji cringed and frowned somewhat disapprovingly at the elderly man, but gave them a weak nod. "By the way, you should drop by your wife for once, say hi to Danielle from me."

"I'll be back in an hour." The middle-aged man replied as he hurried out, bidding them a hasty farewell.

Kirika listened to the creaking from the departing footsteps until the door below closed, Schumann's attention now being once again focused on them. Mireille raised her eyebrows in a silent question, also finding it somewhat funny that at his age, the man was still protecting his son from things that may be better unknown. Was Alexji truly that incompetent, or was it something else? This stuck a warning bell inside her head, it seemed like they might get more than what they originally bargained for upon the decision to come here.

Schumann knew something, and the assassin wasn't sure of what it was.

The wrinkles in his face stretched and cracked like dry earth as his face changed, gone was the stern formality of the seasoned academician, left was something else, less logical but more alert.

The silence in the room screamed, neither Mireille nor Kirika being entirely sure of what to expect at this point.

"Two women," Andre started, voice now stronger. "In togas of ancient Greece, each wielding a sword to the other's honour. Their heads crowned by wreaths of laurel, the sign of ultimate power and they face each other in salute, on their knees with the blades raised in front of them. Am I right?" He asked, turning to Mireille while pushing the black rimmed glasses further up his nose. And all of sudden, he seemed to have shrunk, as if crushed by the weight of a lifetime of burden. The newfound strength in his voice bristled as he spoke, like a leaf waiting for the autumn storm, expecting to be crushed at the slightest movement.

"Am I right, lady lynx of Corsica?"

* * *

Question for your readers, is this any Noir-ish at all this far or am I simply baking my own pie here?

But then, pie is good eh?

Until chapter 6 then- **Wildcat**

Kirika: Mreeeooow...

Mireille: She means me silly.


End file.
